BSG: S5, Episode Four: The Trials and Tribulations of Parenthood
by MissiAmphetamine
Summary: Romo Lampkin faces a highly controversial political situation regarding an old law of Laura Roslyn's, Hotdog gets some bad news, Sharon goes into labour and complications arise, Jake is missing, and we catch a glimpse of two of our old friends. (Sequel to 'Interlude: Black and White Disorientation')
1. Part One - The Presence of Fear

Episode Four: The Trials and Tribulations of Parenthood

_Disclaimer: _BSG and the characters do not belong to me, and I make no profit from my scribblings.

_Author's Note: _Thank you to everyone who has left reviews on my stories! You are all wonderful! This episode has been my favourite to write overall so far; although it also kind of made me tear up a little bit and feel like an evil, evil person at certain points, and hopefully will do the same for you – if it doesn't then I've failed in my job :p I'm not saying _bad things _definitely happen (or definitely don't happen) in this episode, but they _are_ in the air…

_Enjoy!_

# # #

_Part One – The Presence of Fear_

Pain. Cramping, seizing pain, grabbing her abdomen and back in a vice and _squeezing_. Disoriented, Athena's eyes flew open and she reached for the source of the hurt, hands fluttering helplessly over her distended abdomen. Shocked out of drowsiness by the pain gripping her, Athena stared up at the ceiling and waited for the sensation to pass, hands pressed tight to her belly, unable to think properly while it engulfed her. A few more seconds and the sudden, painful cramp receded and the ability to think calmly returned. Oh gods. Athena knew what this meant.

"Karl – Karl!" She whispered urgently, not wanting to wake Hera, and reached across and shook him. As Athena tried to wake him, her mind was flipping efficiently through her thoughts, like the quick and automatic pre-flight checks she had done so many times. That was a contraction. It had hurt – she took a moment to let herself appreciate that yes, it had _really_ hurt. She was either going into labour, or it was a false alarm. Her waters hadn't broken. She was a week away from her estimated due date – not too early, even if her due date wasn't quite accurate. She needed to go and see her midwife – she hadn't seen Ishay since they had left the anti-tech movement, but Landfall was too far away. Godsdamnit – today was the day they had been planning to go into Landfall, to stay there close to the hospital until the baby was safely born. The timing couldn't be frakking worse.

"Huh?" Karl stirred out of sleep slowly and heavily, blinking owlishly at Athena, and then instantly coming fully aware when he saw her worried expression.

"What? What's wrong?" Panic threading through his voice and she hushed him.

"I had a contraction. It woke me up." She whispered, struggling awkwardly up into a sitting position, waving off Karl's silently offered help. He boggled at her and then sat bolt upright, looking around him in a panic, as though he would find some solution to the onset of labour in a corner of the cabin.

"Gods, we have to –"

"Calm down! You'll wake Hera up." She hissed and laid her hand over his, and he stopped. Looked at her and waited, his first panic instantly replaced by calm. Karl had always listened to her, thank the gods – not one of those men who ignored and dismissed the people around them, but someone who actually stopped and listened. Right now Athena couldn't appreciate it more; the last thing she needed was a Gaius Baltar going into a panic.

"What do we do?" He murmured, eyes intense on her, fingers curling tightly around hers. Athena leaned over and kissed him instead of answering, soft and lingering on the lips. His hand buried itself in her hair, cradling the side of her head as he kissed her again, deeper this time.

"What do we do?" Karl asked again after pulling away, and Athena flung back the bedcovers, clambering out and stretching gingerly. Her whole midsection felt tight and heavy, and she was acutely aware of it as she waited nervously for the next contraction to seize her body.

"I don't know if I can make it into Landfall."

"No, we're not doing that. What if you have the baby on the way?"

Athena shoots him a _look_ as she quickly dresses, feeling clumsy and large, as she has for the past two months, her muscles taut as she expected a contraction that hadn't yet come.

"I doubt that, Karl. It's not _that_ far. But I think it would be safer to go to Ishay. She's closer, and I was seeing her before we decided to have the baby in Landfall – she'd be our best option."

Karl was up now, pulling his clothes on with hurried jerky movements, flashing her worried tight-lipped looks, as if he wanted to say something but wouldn't.

"Are you all right?" She asked him and he nodded brusquely.

"Just worried. Last time, with Hera…"

"This is different. I'm almost at term – it'll be fine."

"Yeah." He wasn't reassured; she could see that. But Athena didn't have the time or energy to waste on trying to make him feel better. At least he was keeping his worry to himself and not panicking like Gaius Baltar had.

Hera complained at being woken so early, the sun barely beginning to peek over the horizon as Athena bundled her up and Karl cooked breakfast. He hadn't wanted to – had said they should go _now_, a hint of panic in his voice, but Athena's contractions were around fifteen minutes apart and she thought they had time to give Hera breakfast at least. It was going to be a long day for Hera, with none of her usual routine, and Athena wanted her to at least sit down and eat a good breakfast. Athena picked at the food herself, but couldn't summon up an appetite even though her stomach felt hollowly empty.

"Mama, what's wrong?" Hera stared at her mother, bent over and hanging onto a chair as Karl laced up the little girl's shoes. Athena managed a smile.

"I'm fine, Hera. The baby's coming, that's all."

'Coming from where?"

The pain was rippling through Athena's belly, sharp and gripping, making her gasp, fingers curled white-knuckled around the chair back. This contraction felt stronger, and she couldn't speak for a moment as it cramped her muscles.

"From mama's tummy. Remember? We told you a few days ago. Now come on, Hera, sweetie. We have to go see the doctor." Karl told Hera, setting her on her feet and turning to Athena, his eyes grim and shuttered.

"Is mama sick?" Hera tugged at Karl's arm and he gulped and shook his head, visibly tried to calm himself.

"No. She's okay. We just need a doctor to help the baby be born. Are you all right, Sharon? Can you walk?"

Athena waved him off and bit her lip as the contraction ebbed away. Glorious relief. She straightened and nodded at him.

"I'm fine. We might just have to stop occasionally."

The sun was just beginning to throw pinks and golds across the sky as Karl latched the cabin door shut and they set off, heading toward the main dissident community where Ishay lived. Birdsong trilled through the still air, and Hera skipped and ran ahead of them, small feet silent on the ground, head twisting and turning this way and that to take in everything around her. Hera had no comprehension of what was happening, of course; just excited to be out in the forest this early, with the light filtering through the trees and bathing her skin with dappled pink. Ishay's cabin wasn't far, thanks the gods. The nurse and midwife lived about five minutes brisk walk along the ridge – it took longer this morning though, Athena clutching onto Karl's hand more for moral than physical support.

The shutters were closed, the cabin door shut, and Karl went up and banged on the door, calling Ishay's name. Hera sat down on the dirt, heedless of her clothes, and Athena didn't have the energy to tell her off. She felt like sitting down on the ground herself, just to get off her feet, but it would take too much godsdamned effort to get back up. Athena leaned against a tree trunk, breathing heavily, expecting another contraction to begin any minute.

"Anything?" She called to Karl, squinting at him, the rising sun in her eyes.

"I can hear –" He broke off as the cabin door opened and Athena heaved a sigh of relief and then winced, clutching her belly as it moulded tight around the baby within. Every contraction seemed to ratchet the intensity of the pain upwards, growing ever stronger. This one had been ten minutes after the last, if her counting off the minutes had been accurate – they were getting closer together. Gods, this was frakking awful already and it hadn't even been a couple of hours. She still had hours and hours to go. Possibly a day or more. _Damn_. Athena breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth, slow and regular, trying to pay attention to the clipped conversation going on between Karl and Ishay. The nurse/midwife was in a threadbare nightgown, a blanket thrown around her shoulders, bare toes curled over the doorstep.

Athena's contraction passed after a count of forty seconds – they were getting longer too – and she tuned in to the increasingly heated exchange between her husband and the midwife.

Karl was protesting, grim-faced and cold.

"She's in labour! You can't just –"

"Helo, I'm sorry but…" Ishay was looking down at her feet and speaking reluctantly, standing in the doorframe like she was blocking entry into her home.

"You can't _do_ this."

"I can –"

"This is wrong. You know that."

"Helo, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Godsdamnit, this is _wrong_!"

Athena hurried across to Karl's side, one arm supporting her belly.

"What's going on here?" She narrowed her eyes at the pair of them, glancing from one to the other. Whatever the frak was going on, it didn't sound good. Karl glared and gestured at Ishay,

"She –" He pursed his lips up and swore softly before he continued,

"She says she won't see you."

Athena blinked and scrunched her eyebrows together, shaking her head slightly,

"What? You won't… But…? Ishay?" She looked to the nurse for confirmation and the woman glanced up for a split second before dropping her eyes like Athena's gaze burnt hers.

"You aren't serious?" Athena asked, her face telegraphing her utter disbelief, Karl's hand finding hers. She held onto it tightly.

Ishay nodded; head still down and cheeks flaming red.

"I'm sorry, Sharon. But you aren't part of the movement anymore. You don't belong here. You belong in Landfall. I'm sorry, but –"

"Oh _godsdamnit_. You don't seem to understand the situation, Ishay. Sharon needs medical attention, and rather than you seeing her, you want us to walk all the frakking way into Landfall? This is godsdamned _wrong_ and you know it." Karl flung at Ishay with icy, righteous anger, what little patience he had left hanging by a bare thread.

"Mama? What's –"

"Wait, Hera, mama and daddy are talking." Ishay couldn't do this. She couldn't really expect Athena and Karl to turn around and go all the way to Landfall could she? It was too far. The thought of walking downhill along the rough trails with contractions racking her body made Athena cringe.

"Ishay – you were my midwife. You were going to deliver this baby. I know you – we're friends. Why would you…?" Athena trailed off, not knowing what to say, furious and shaking with anger and fear as Ishay kept resolutely staring at her feet, shaking her head 'no' repeatedly as Athena talked.

"We aren't friends, Sharon. Not since you and Karl decided to abandon what you believed in – what I still believe in."

"You don't want to do this. I can tell." Karl interrupted calmly, voice low and controlled, flicking his eyes to Hera. Athena glanced back and saw Hera was watching from several feet away, little hands twined together and eyes round and worried. Hera might not fully understand what was going on, but she could tell it wasn't good.

Karl continued,

"Who told you to cut us off, Ishay? Was it Lee?"

Ishay indicated it wasn't with a sparse shake of her head. Karl tried again, keeping his temper with an obvious effort, jaw clenched and hand squeezing Athena's tightly,

"Paulla, then?"

A nod this time.

"That frakking _bitch_." Under his breath, and then to Ishay,

"You do realise she's not even in charge, right Ishay? She had no godsdamned right to tell you who you can and can't midwife for."

"Go down to Landfall, Sharon, Karl. You don't want anything to do with us – you sided with them. So let them help you." Ishay answered coldly, and Athena was struck stunned by the callousness of the nurse's tone.

"It's your oath, Ishay. You can't just –"

Ishay stared at the two of them, hand clutching her blanket tight around thin shoulders, eyes flat,

"You better get going." And began to close the door on them. Karl's hand shot out to stop it but Athena stopped him.

"Sharon."

"Just leave it, Karl. We can't make her." Athena was already calculating how long it should take them to get down into Landfall whilst having to stop for contractions, wondering what they would do with Hera when they got there. There was no point in wasting time on convincing Ishay – she wasn't going to listen to them, that was frakking obvious. Paulla had whispered in Ishay's ear and she had drunk it up, just like everyone else; just like Athena herself had, for a while. Gods, she felt stupid about that now.

"Godsdamnit." Karl gritted his teeth and dropped Athena's hand, clenching his fists as though he wanted to break Ishay's door down and force her to deliver the baby.

"_Damnit_!" He stalked away from the door, shoulders hunched up as he fought to regain control of his anger.

"_Damnit_!"

Athena saw Hera was still watching and hurried to her daughter, taking her small warm hand; Hera's skin so silky soft, fragile fingers tight around Athena's.

"Karl. Stop it. You're frightening Hera."

He stopped in his aimless pacing and looked up at the two of them, apology crossing his face and pushing back the impotent anger, the bunching muscles in his jaw, the furrow etched between his brows the only signs of his frustration.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Hera."

"We need to get going _now_. The baby won't be arriving anytime soon, but I don't want to be walking down to Landfall with these contractions any closer together."

"This isn't godsdamned _right_." He took Hera's other hand in his, their eyes meeting over their daughter's head, and Athena read sympathy and fear for her in his expression.

"I realise that, Karl, but that doesn't change reality." She said, bluntly pragmatic, and walked away from Ishay's cabin without looking back, secretly harbouring the hope that the woman would give in and call them back before they left. She didn't.

# # #

"Jake! Jake!" Romo sheltered his eyes from the early morning sun with his hand and yelled down the streets of Landfall from his doorway. Nothing. No sound of barking or elatedly charging paws galloping towards his master. Just silence.

"Have you seen Jake since I let him out to do his business?" He asked Redwing, disappointed when he got a headshake in return. Where had that bloody dog gone?

"Jake!" He yelled one last time at the top of his lungs and noticed Redwing cringe away from the noise. He felt like a bloody fool, standing there yelling for the damned dog.

"Godsdamnit."

Jake had been out half an hour now, which wasn't unusual for him, really. Everyone knew him around Landfall; he often got a cool drink of – non-alcoholic – juice at Joe's, Aphrodite who ran Trader's always gave him a few treats when he came begging, and the kiddies would play with him whenever they got the chance. Romo figured he'd give the dog another hour before he went out searching for him. And there would probably be no need – Jake would turn up grinning madly with his tongue lolling out, tired from gambolling about and stuffed full with the scraps he'd begged from people and ready to laze around for the rest of the day.

"I'm sure he'll turn up soon." Redwing offered and Romo nodded in return, smiled slightly at the LPO. He turned to go back inside – he had documents to sign off on that had been piling up for days. Gods, Romo hated frakking paperwork all the more now that it was handwritten scribblings on thick, slightly lumpy homemade paper.

"Mr President! Mr President!" A voice called out just as the door was swinging shut. A woman was hurrying down the street toward him, waving one arm in the air as though to get his attention.

Romo narrowed his eyes and squinted at the woman. He recognised her, but couldn't remember how exactly he knew her, or her name. He waited on the doorstep, Redwing flashing him an awkward glance and smile and Romo mirroring the expression, much to Redwing's discomfort.

The woman arrived in a cloud of bustling, harried, efficiency, panting a little, short-cropped grey hair mussed and glasses hanging from a fine silver chain around her neck.

"Mr President." She gasped and laid her hand to her thin chest, sucking in breath,

"I need to speak to you, urgently."

Romo blinked.

"I'm sorry. I don't believe I know you…?"

The woman ran her hands through her hair in a futile attempt to smooth it and then smiled crisply at Romo, held out her hand. He stared at it for a second before he took it and briefly shook. Shaking hands…well, you never knew where they had been. And these days, with toiletries at an all time low, hands were often not very clean.

"I'm Doctor Circe Nerys – from the hospital."

Romo relaxed. A doctor. Acquainted with hygiene. Excellent.

"Dr Nerys, of course. I remember you now."

"No, you don't." She flashed him a grin.

"No, I don't, I'm afraid." He admitted with a rueful smile,

"But that's beside the point. You said you had a matter of some urgency to discuss. Come in, please. How can I help?" Romo ushered her inside, his mind running through possibilities. It couldn't be for hospital supplies or equipment – the small hospital was awash with them since the trip up to the orbiting Fleet to retrieve the remaining medical equipment along with all the necessities for solar power generation. Could she perhaps need more personal supplies? The doctors and other hospital works were paid in necessities for survival, as were the LPOs and Councillors, which meant they were free to dedicate all their time to their jobs. Perhaps the doctors had decided their 'pay' was not enough. Romo couldn't think what else it could be.

He sat at the dining table and indicated Nerys sit too, folding his hands on the table in front of him. Nerys began speaking quickly, voice clipped and quick, reflective of her overall appearance.

"There is a problem, Mr President. Earlier this morning, I had an appointment with a patient. Liara Addison."

Romo nodded slowly, not sure exactly why a medical problem would concern him.

"She is fourteen, Mr President, and she is pregnant." Nerys said the words as though they had great import, and Romo furrowed his brow, confused.

"Well, she's a bit young to be having children yet, I would have thought, but… Congratulations? I fail to see…" He tried and Nerys sighed heavily and shook her head, rubbing one thin hand over her forehead in a gesture of weariness,

"No, no, no, Mr President. You see Liara does not want to remain pregnant."

"So what's the problem? Why is this a matter that needs my attention? It's very unfortunate, and my sympathies to, ah, Miss Addison, but isn't that a rather easily fixable situation?"

"Mr President! Laura Roslyn's anti-abortion law is still in effect! We cannot legally terminate the pregnancy, without the law being revoked first."

Romo sat abruptly back in his chair; face carefully blank as he ordered his thoughts. He had been completely unaware that the abortion law was current – for some reason he had assumed Gaius Baltar had struck it out. Obviously not. To be honest, it wasn't something that Romo had thought about at all, past the initial distaste when it was first ratified. He didn't have much reason to worry about women's fertility, neither being a woman nor having a romantic relationship with one – until now? He still wasn't sure _what_ he classified his relationship with Manya as. He refocused on the matter at hand.

"I'm sorry, but are you telling me that all this time, abortion has been illegal?"

"It has, Mr President."

"Bloody frakking hell." He swore quietly, mind whirring, reprimanding himself for not noticing that earlier. He had flicked briefly through most of the relevant documents on the laws of the Fleet – and now the Colony's laws, too – but he must have skipped over that one.

"I had absolutely no idea."

"Well, you did inherit the Presidency at a rather rocky time, to be fair." Nerys commented with a small, dry smile, and continued hopefully,

"Can I take this to mean you are _not_ in favour of the current law?"

"I am not." Romo replied simply. He was in favour of people not getting pregnant in the first place if they didn't want to be, but in the event that pregnancy occurred, Romo failed to see the problem with halting the process before it went any further. This had not made him popular on Gemenon. Most people were fiercely against abortion – when speaking of their personal opinions anyway. Before the Fall of the Colonies, abortion had been legal on all twelve worlds; although some worlds had been more judgemental about the procedure than others.

"Then you will help?"

"You want me to erase the law, then, Dr Nerys?"

"I do, yes."

"The problem with that, Dr Nerys," Romo steepled his fingers beneath his chin and stared thoughtfully over the doctor's shoulder,

"Is that such issues need to be approved by the Council. I could issue a Presidential order regarding the abolition of the law but…such a thing would not be conducive to my political career."

"This law is a serious, life-threatening danger, Mr President. I hardly think your _political career_ being less favourable should influence your decision." Nerys burst out, and Romo admired her passion and forcefulness even as he shook his head regretfully.

"No, Dr Nerys. It is not as simple as you make it out to be. It never _is_ as simple as you make it out to be. If I override the Council, it will detrimentally affect my standing with them, and make it less likely they will vote in my favour on other – just as important – matters. I have to follow proper procedure."

Nerys accepted that without showing any emotion, and asked brusquely,

"Which way do you think the council will vote, Mr President? And how soon can you hold a vote? I ask because it is a matter of some urgency. Miss Addison is at six weeks gestation, according to the ultrasounds, and the sooner we can terminate, the safer it will be for her. Time is of the essence."

Romo shrugged, lifting his hands palm up in the air in a gesture of uncertainty.

"We have a mixture of men and women, and conservatives and liberals on the Council, Dr Nerys. I would not like to guess –"

"But if you had to?" Nerys interrupted and Romo shrugged again,

"It would be a close vote, I think." He considered the people on the Council – yes, it would indeed be a close vote, although he was sure of only a few of them. He knew for a fact that Tercel would vote against revoking the law, and that Manya and Sarah would vote for, but other than that, he had very little to go on.

"And when?"

"I can call an emergency Council meeting this afternoon, but as to whether everyone will be available to attend at this short notice, I don't know. At the very least, I can present the motion today to the majority of the Councillors, but don't expect a decision until tomorrow, Dr."

Nerys nodded and leaned forward, faded blue eyes intent on Romo's, and he wished he'd put his tinted glasses on when he got up. At this present moment they were sitting unhelpfully on his bedside table. Godsdamnit. He held her gaze though, as she spoke.

"This is important, Mr President. I will not see a young girl's life ruined because the silly boy she was frakking didn't have the self-control to pull out." Her eyes were fierce on his,

"One little thoughtless mistake, by a couple of hormone-ridden teenagers should not equal a life of servitude unwilling. Liara Addison is a bright, thoughtful, kind girl – she could do great things; but not if she dies in childbirth, or is hindered by a baby she is not equipped to raise."

Romo was for one of the few times in his life, pinned by the woman's gaze as opposed to the other way around. Usually it was he discomfiting people, setting them off balance and seizing their attention. He disliked the sensation, but couldn't look away – refused to drop his eyes.

"I understand, Doctor." He said at last.

"I understand you completely."

"Thank you, Mr President." She got to her feet, spindly and tall, faded blue eyes sharp on his face, and Romo felt like a little boy under the sternly approving eyes of a particularly strict teacher.

"I appreciate your willing support."

"You are most welcome, Dr Nerys." Romo stood and accompanied her to the door in a gentlemanly fashion, inclining his head to her.

"I shall keep you informed of any developments as they happen, Doctor."

"Of course, you will, Mr President." Nerys told him with another of her small dry smiles, and then whisked off down the street toward the hospital, enveloped in that air of brisk agitation.

# # #

"Where's my cow? Is that my cow?"

"Nooo! No, no, no! It go BAAA! It a BAA!"

"That's right – It goes 'baa'. It's a sheep!" Was being read with great enthusiasm and all the right sounds from a dog-eared, tattered picture book.

"That's not my c –"

"Brendan Constanza?"

Hotdog looked up from the battered book with a jolt, embarrassed. He was suddenly overwhelmed by nervousness and his palms went all clammy. He wiped one hand on his pants – unable to dry the other hand, one finger clutched in Nicky's tight, hot grip.

"Ah, yeah. That's me." He assented and his hand unconsciously closed around Nicky's completely. So small in his.

"I'm Doctor Jasmine Charminder." She smiled down at him, expression meant to be reassuring, but it frakking wasn't. Not that it was her fault.

"And this must be Nicky." She continued, saving Hotdog from having to say it was nice to meet her or anything untrue like that. It wasn't nice to meet her.

"Hi Nicky. I'm Dr Charminder, but you can call me Jazz." She smiled at Nicky, took the chubby little hand Hotdog wasn't holding and gave it a little squeeze. Nicky smiled and babbled a jumble of toddler conversation – words that had meaning to Nicky, but were mostly too jumbled for Hotdog to understand them. Hotdog caught the word 'cow' in the mix somewhere, and a grin formed uninvited on his face. He loved that godsdamned book.

"Say hi, Nicky."

"Hi-hi." Nicky gave a little wave at the Doctor and then lapsed back onto the pillows of the hospital bed, tired and hot. He was so tired these days. Had no energy, and it was getting worse as time went on.

"I see you've been seeing Doctor Cottle. Well, he's busy today, so I'll be taking care of you, Nicky." Her words were obviously for Hotdog, but he liked the way she addressed Nicky, talking in calm, cheery tones. It was a nice change to Doc Cottle's bedside manner. Cottle was nice enough to Nicky, in a sort of mildly ignoring him kind of way, but he half-terrified Hotdog.

"Thanks." Hotdog said, at loss for what to say but feeling he should say something.

"Well, Mr Constanza, now that we have power, and all our equipment, we can run some tests that we weren't capable of doing before now. Would that be all right by you?"

Hotdog wrinkled his brow,

"What kind of tests? And what for? I mean, you know it's his kidneys, right? What else…?"

"Blood tests, today, Mr Constanza. And yes, we know it is Nicky's kidneys that aren't working properly, but tests might be able to help us ascertain why, which should tell us how exactly we need to go about trying to treat him." Dr Charminder was gently and simply explaining the details in a way Hotdog could understand, and that helped him feel better for some reason. Most of what Doc Cottle explained went straight over his head. Hotdog was a good pilot, and not a stupid person – or at least he didn't think so – but all that technical scientific and medical shit went straight over his head. He caught the use of the word '_try_ to treat him' though, and bit his lip, frightened for his son.

"Well that's good. Right?"

Doctor Charminder visibly hesitated and then nodded slowly,

"Knowing the exact nature of the problem is often very helpful in determining successful treatment, yes."

"Often?"

"I won't be able to tell you anymore until we've done the tests, Mr Constanza. I'm not comfortable with guesses when talking about patients' prognoses."

That didn't sound good. Hotdog looked over at his son, tiny on the bed and fear thudded through his body in time with his heart.

"O-Okay." He managed to respond to the doctor, not quite thinking straight. Gods, not a year ago Hotdog hadn't even known he'd had a kid, and now…. Well, now Nicky was the most important thing in Hotdog's life, and he was frakking terrified for him.

Dr Charminder was efficient and softly spoken, and Hotdog thought Nicky liked her. She let him play with her stethoscope, and gave him a sugar beet candy stick for being so good while she drew blood. Gods, that was the worst part. Nicky was old enough now to know what the needle meant, and he kicked and howled while Hotdog held him down, the doctor drawing the blood as quick as she could. Nicky's wails of betrayal, as Hotdog pinned him on the bed and tried to tell him it was all going to be okay, were heartbreaking.

And then afterwards, instantly forgiving and seeking comfort like all toddlers, Nicky crawled off the bed and into Hotdog's arms, sucking on his sugar beet stick and snuggling his head into Hotdog's chest. One little arm wrapped up around Hotdog's neck, his dimpled fist that held the sugar beet mashed into his mouth. Hotdog held him tight and thanked Dr Charminder quietly as she hurried off with the blood samples, and rocked Nicky back and forth with an easy motion that was becoming second nature now. Frakking hell. Only about nine months of being a dad, and then when it was finally starting to feel natural and normal to be a father, Nicky started getting sick again.

"Cow." Nicky demanded through his mouthful of sugar beet and hand.

"Coooww!"

"Alright, alright. Hang on a second." Hotdog snagged the book from the floor while juggling Nicky and being half-choked by Nicky's grip around his neck, unwinding the little arm from his neck, and turning Nicky around to look at the beloved book. He didn't want to read. He was terrified and his mind was filled up with all the things that the blood tests could show, all the worst-case scenarios pushing into the forefront of his mind. He wanted to go somewhere quiet and sit alone until he heard the news. But Nicky needed his dad.

"Dada, COW! Mooo, dada! Coooooww!" Nicky beat on his father's hand with his fist and grabbed at the book, trying to open it.

Hotdog swallowed hard and kissed the top of Nicky's head, his voice strangled with emotion as he read,

"Where's my cow?"

# # #

_Author's Note: _So, that's the beginning of the episode – and it's going to get much more intense from here on in. The episode will be focusing mostly on Romo, Helo, and Hotdog, and bad things could happen in the BSG 'verse this episode. Bad, sad things are indeed at great risk of happening… This is BSG after all; people can't stay happy for long without the afore mentioned _bad things_ coming to get them *evil laugh*

Please leave a _review_ and let me know what you thought of this chapter – I love your feedback!

Oh, and btw, does anyone know what the book Hotdog is reading to Nicky is, and who wrote it? 'Tis written by one of my very favourite-ist authors :D

_Part Two – Inevitable Vulnerability_ will be up in several days (fingers crossed).


	2. Part Two - Inevitable Vulnerability

_Author's Note: _ Thank you so much for all the lovely comments I've been getting lately! I appreciate each and every one of them immensely! In this chapter's opening scene I'm probably (as always) playing fast and loose with how politics and such actually work…but I think my approximation is more interesting than actual politics. Plus I'm far too lazy to figure out how my take on the Council might/does deviate from a real life equivalent, so there's that. _Trigger Warnings and therefore mild Spoilers beneath_

.

.

.

.

.

.

This chapter has a (non-graphic, or what I consider non-graphic) scene involving labour, and mention of the complications that can result thereof, and it also discusses the topic of children and death, so I'm chucking a big ol' trigger warning on this chapter regarding certain scenes. . . . . . . _Anyway_ that's all my pre-show chat done; now it's time for the story, so please,

_Enjoy!_

# # #

Romo looked around the Council room. He had sent out runners, and everyone had made it, although no one looked particularly pleased to be there. Being called away from their personal business at noon would not endear him to them. Weston Tercel, Romo noted with amusement, had a trace of porridge at the corner of his mouth. The only one who didn't seem annoyed was Manya, who while no doubt wasn't pleased to be at the meeting, seemed pleased enough to see Romo again. They hadn't seen each other in several days, and Romo decided he would have to rectify that as soon as possible.

"Thank you all for coming." He began with a faint smile, getting to his feet and clearing his throat.

"I have called this emergency meeting of the Council because there is an urgent matter that has been brought to my attention only this morning. Doctor Circe Nerys, who works at the hospital, as you might guess, informed me that a patient of hers requires an abortion." There was a collective indrawn breath around the table, and the tension in the atmosphere suddenly increased ten-fold. Abortion had always been a somewhat touchy subject in the Colonies. It had always been legal, but regarded with varying degrees of disapproval, as was to be expected, Romo supposed.

"I was extremely surprised to find this was a problem, and upon inquiring as to why Dr Nerys had not done so already,"

Several openly shocked and disapproving looks were flashed Romo's way, and as he kept talking he noted who the owners of the looks were; Joseph Ababa, Finn Jeffries, Weston Tercel – as Romo had expected, and surprisingly, Dianna Eyrie.

"I was informed the criminalisation of abortion law that Laura Roslyn had enacted is still in effect. I have called this Council meeting in order to vote to revoke the law."

The Councillors looked in no way ecstatic over that statement. Even Manya looked tight-lipped and tense, no smile now as she looked down the table at Romo. It was clear that Manya didn't think the vote would go the way Romo wanted it to, and her opinion was not to be discounted.

"So, I move that we vote on the matter of whether or not to revoke the Criminalisation of Abortion Act passed by President Laura Roslyn, and legalise the procedure once more."

"I second the motion." Manya said coolly and without hesitation and was subject to several dirty looks that she did not flinch under.

"Now hang on just a minute," Weston Tercel was the first to object, as Romo had suspected he would be. His wrinkled hand jabbed a finger belligerently at Romo as he addressed him.

"You can't just drag us in here, spring this extremely sensitive and complex moral and ethical issue upon us, and expect us to all vote on it immediately, without so much as a discussion of the issue."

Romo tightened his jaw and winced inwardly. Godsdamnit. It was beginning.

"I fail to see the complexity you worry about, Mr Tercel." He was cool and disdainful as he sat down and stared across the table at Tercel.

"You fail to see the…? Mr President, we are talking about whether or not it should be legal for babies to be killed in the womb!" Tercel's hand came down on the table with a thunk for emphasis, his bushy eyebrows bunching together and eyes fierce and bright.

Romo squeezed his lips together and swore inwardly. He didn't want to get dragged into vehement disagreement, but he didn't see that he had much choice. He spoke dispassionately.

"No, Mr Tercel. I respect that you feel strongly about this, but it is in fact about whether or not a woman should have bodily autonomy. The _foetus_ is irrelevant."

"_Irrelevant_? They are innocent lives, lives that deserve not to be snuffed out before they have even barely begun! They have a right to live – they are humans, potential children, forming babies, and I fail to see how you can so cavalierly recommend murdering them! "

Everyone else was quiet so far, but Romo could see the thoughts ticking over in their heads; the objections forming, the agreement rising, the politics of the issue, all the different factors fomenting in their minds. He had to speak carefully. He couldn't risk alienating anyone.

"Mr Tercel, Councillors – we cannot enslave people. And enforced pregnancy is slavery, plain and simple. We no longer have reliable contraceptives available, and so unwanted pregnancy _is_ going to occur at a relatively high rate." He flicked through the facts he had dug up at the hospital just hours before the meeting.

"Since landfall on Earth, seventeen women at Landfall, Beta and Wideskies, have committed suicide upon discovering they were pregnant." Romo felt guilty as he recited the stark horror. He should have known this. He was the President – why had no one told him?

"Seventeen women." He repeated and paused a moment, Looking each of the Councillor's in the eyes.

"The most common method of death was consumption of desert-rose roots and stems. An extremely unpleasant way to die. Women who knew what I was unfortunately unaware of – that abortion was illegal – who were so desperate they felt death was preferable to pregnancy and the resulting child." Romo gulped, anger threading through his veins as he stared Tercel down and knew that the facts he had just relayed would not change Tercel's mind in the slightest.

"Seventeen. That is a not inconsiderable number when you consider how few we are." Mr Ababa mused, dark eyes hard and sad in his lined face. He shook his head, voice deep and words spoken with careful weight,

"If we do not provide women with safe options for termination, they will seek other, more dangerous ways – right up to seeking death itself. This is not acceptable."

"Exactly!"

"But, what about the reason the law was initially ratified? If we allow women to freely obtain abortions, how many will actually choose to reproduce in this environment? It is a hard life, what we have eked out here, and many people may choose not to reproduce." Kari Eldon pointed out in her steady, logical way, and Romo felt the sudden and intense urge to gag the Councillor and hide her under the table. She had brought up the one bloody thing that the other Councillors hadn't thought of, and which could sway the opinion of those who were undecided. Godsdamn her.

"That is even more abhorrent, Ms Eldon." Manya's chin was held high and her eyes bored into Eldon's face, the lines of shoulder and neck tense.

"You cannot seriously be proposing that we should allow a law that forces people to bear children _precisely_ because they are in a situation where that may be the worst thing they can imagine?"

"We need to reproduce, or we will die, Ms Yelizarov. It is not a pretty thought, but it is an indisputable fact."

"Then we would be better off dying, godsdamnit!" Romo pushed himself to his feet again, glaring around the table.

"Is this what we want to be? Is the continuation of the human – and Cylon – race such an immensely important priority that we will build it on the backs of death and suffering and slavery?" He was furious and Manya's warning _look_ was roundly ignored,

"Yes, we have fought long and hard to survive. We, as a species, are stained red in tooth and claw, but most of what we have done since the Fall up until now has been necessary. Harsh but fair. Directed towards protecting ourselves, finding a new world, building a better future. This – this travesty of a law that I cannot _believe_ a woman such as Laura Roslyn would pass, is not something I can justify. It isn't something I can look at and examine honestly and say to myself, 'ah, but Romo, we were protecting ourselves. We were making a better world'. Because that is not what Roslyn's law is doing. It is enforcing slavery and causing suicide. It is an abhorrent law, and to keep it is unacceptable."

Romo drew in breath and calmed himself a little, blood zinging and thrumming in his ears, hot and cold all over from the force of his sudden wash of anger. Manya was looking at him, face empathetic, a supportive curve of a smile flickering at her lips. Romo continued in a more even tone,

"Councillors, I would personally rather the human species died off, than we force its continuation by using the bodies of slaves. If this is what we have become as a species, then let us die."

Romo realised as he sat down how bitter he had sounded, and he lowered his head and shut his eyes for a brief second, trying to compose himself. That incensed outburst of his had either helped greatly or just destroyed his position entirely. Well, he could hope, even if it were a pointless endeavour.

"Hmm. A President who doesn't mind if his citizens suffer extinction – who in fact, seems quite eager for his species to die off. Is this the man we want to be responsible for the people's safety and future?" Sheridan hid a small smirk as he lamented Romo's position but Romo saw it. So did Ababa, apparently.

"Mr Sheridan! You are out of order. Your implications are highly spurious. I would think that anyone here at this table with half a functional brain would understand the President was making a point; about what our choices as a species say about our worthiness to survive, and whether some choices are never acceptable, regardless of their results." Ababa's voice was strewn with deep disapproval and disbelief, all the power and charisma of the man fixated toward the slight Sheridan,

"But if you wish to take him literally and completely miss the point in order to seize the opportunity to slander the President, then by all means…" Ababa then leant back in his chair with unhidden amusement on his dark features, and Sheridan shifted in his chair uncomfortably, thoroughly cowed. Romo nodded at Mr Ababa in a gesture of heartfelt thanks. Without Ababa's rebuke, Sheridan's comments would have seeded with the Councillors – but now, he looked like the petulant and bickering child he was.

Romo cleared his throat. So far he knew that Manya, Sarah, and Ababa were with him, and Eldon, Tercel and Sheridan against. The others, he had no idea about. He would have assumed that the women would all be eager to revoke the law, but Ms Eldon had proved that assumption wrong. Well, time to get it over with.

"Are we ready to vote on the motion?" He inquired of the Councillor's and they looked amongst themselves, papers shuffling and throats clearing nervously.

"No. I wish to have some time to consider my vote. This is not a decision that should be made lightly, and the ramifications should be well pondered by all of us. I call for an adjournment until tomorrow."

Romo glanced up in shock as Manya spoke. He had no idea what she meant by saying she needed to consider her vote – that it was not a decision that should be made lightly. She couldn't seriously be meaning that she was on the fence, could she? Romo realised that all his assumptions that Manya would be in agreement with Romo on this matter had been just that – assumption. It was entirely possible that she was not decidedly swayed in one direction or the other. Manya had seconded his motion at the beginning of the meeting; that was true. And she had spoken out against Eldon's motives for keeping the law – but that did not by necessity mean that she was in total favour of allowing abortion freely. Romo's head started to throb. He sincerely hoped he was just being paranoid.

"Very well." He said crisply, not meeting Manya's eyes.

"I agree. Councillors – all in favour of adjourning until tomorrow at – one pm? – say aye."

There was a round of straggling and reluctant 'ayes' from the Councillors, and Romo smacked his gavel on the table.

"This meeting is adjourned. Thank you for your time Councillors, and I will see you all tomorrow."

"I am dearly hoping that your call for a delay was some sort of tactic." Romo fell in beside Manya and murmured in her ear as they left the building. Councillors surrounded them and she shrugged lightly, her smile distant.

"You know me, Romo." She replied lightly as she strode quickly down the street in the direction of her tiny home. Romo kept pace with her, careful not to stand intimately close – he didn't want to rub whatever their relationship was in the Councillors faces. No doubt some of them were aware – it was not the best-kept secret, especially since that bloody dinner, but there was no need to confirm what the Councillors may or may not have heard.

"What's that supposed to mean?" An edge of annoyance crept into his voice as they turned off the main street and into the narrow side street Manya's house was on. She paused and looked around, and then touched his forearm softly, fingers slipping down to curl around his wrist.

"You seem unsure of my intentions, Romo." Accusation as gentle as her touch seeped through her words. Romo tilted his head and looked down at her.

"I don't want to assume anything, Manya." He said neutrally and she smiled knowingly.

"You need to learn to trust people."

"I've never done well with trust. Trust and I have experienced a…tumultuous relationship. We are currently _estranged_."

"Oh, very witty, Romo." She was disapproving and disappointed now and Romo felt a pang of guilt.

"As a counsellor, I recommend you make amends with _trust_, before your issues with it impact other areas of your life more severely than they already have." A rebuke, and Romo regretted saying anything to her. She was right – he should have trusted her. He _knew_ Manya – he knew she would never be in favour of keeping Roslyn's abortion law. Godsdamnit. He should have kept his frakking paranoid and groundless worries to himself.

"And as your…as your _whatever_ you consider me to be, I recommend you seek a way to make amends with _me_, before I get sincerely annoyed."

He stood in the empty street staring down at her, trying to form a cogent apology in his head that wouldn't make him sound like a blundering fool.

"I'm sorry –"

"I don't want your apologies. I want your trust. Now, you must excuse me, I had to cancel one counselling session because of the meeting, and am late for another already." A kiss to his cheek, quick and light, and Manya hurried off without another word. Romo laid his hand on his cheek, rubbing idly at the spot she'd tickled with her kiss.

"_Bloody_ woman." Romo sighed without malice.

He watched her disappear into her house, turning the sign that hung off a bent nail in the centre of the door to 'In Session' as she entered. He pondered what exactly to got a woman who had been offended, to ease their annoyance. It had been a long time since…he didn't let himself think on that any further. Mulled over what Manya had meant by the way she had said 'your _whatever_ you consider me to be' as he wandered in the direction of his own house. He sighed.

Endless complications. Life had been far simpler living as a depressed and thoroughly cynical lawyer on the Fleet. Of course, he had been immensely unhappy, but nevertheless, it had been simpler. Romo Lampkin missed simple.

# # #

"Mr Constanza?"

"Dr Charminder. Hi." Hotdog looked up at the doctor, and her face was serious, no trace of a smile gracing her kind features. His blood ran cold. She looked at the hospital bed and saw Nicky was fast asleep curled up under a thin sheet and Hotdog waved a hand at his son,

"He's always tired these days. Poor little guy."

He wiped his palms on his pants, shoulders hunched up defensively and nervousness gluing his eyes to the floor.

"So. Um. Are you here about the tests…?"

"Do you think we could talk in the hallway, Mr Constanza? I wouldn't want to wake him." Dr Charminder asked gently and Hotdog nodded, a lump appearing in his throat that he couldn't swallow away.

"Sh – sure."

The hallway was wide and dark, Galactica's old mess chairs lining its walls.

"Please. Sit." Dr Charminder directed Hotdog and he obeyed her in a daze, feeling shaky, his knees weak. This was bad. It had to be bad. She wouldn't have asked him to come out into the hallway and sit down if it wasn't bad.

The feel of the chair reminded Hotdog bizarrely of the days before he even knew he had a son. Sitting around with Starbuck, Salty, Helo, Narcho – whoever was off-duty and felt like gambling away what little they had. Plumes of smoke from preciously hoarded cigarettes or cigars hazing the air as they played Triad and shot the shit, and drank, and drank, and drank. Late nights getting frakked – and getting _frakked_ – and then waking after four hours sleep with a hangover and mouth dry as hell itself, scrambling into the cockpit of your viper and hoping you didn't get blown to shit.

Adrenaline, fear, exhilaration…everything in spades, staring death in the godsdamned face and _laughing_ at it even while you shit your pants in terror – and never had Hotdog felt like _this_. Being afraid of your own death was one thing – when you were flying, raider in your sights, and finger on the trigger, you never really had the time or presence of mind to properly comprehend the possibility of your death. Not until after you heaved yourself out of the cockpit safe back on Galactica and had time to think, in which case you had already made it and the moment was past.

It had never felt like this. Not this sick, sinking feeling, this all-consuming dread that made him feel like retching onto the floor between his boots. Like covering his ears and not listening, as if that would make whatever Dr Charminder said not true.

Not Nicky. Not his son.

"He's going to be okay, right?" Hotdog blurted out, and could have shot himself for asking it. Stupid frakking question to ask. Way to make the doctor-lady feel worse if Nicky wasn't going to be. Gods don't even _think_ that. He's going to be okay. He has to be o–

"Mr Constanza – Brendan. We have the test results. We will need to do further tests, but the results we have at this point indicate that Nicky is suffering from _chronic_ kidney disease." She paused as if to let it sink in, dark eyes anxious and sympathetic on Hotdog's. He stared blankly at his hands where they rested on his knees, unable to process his thoughts. His brow wrinkled as he tried to absorb the information.

"What, what does that mean?"

"It means that his illness can't be treated by blood transfusions, or anything short of a transplant or dialysis, neither of which –"

"But, but Doc Cottle said he was going to be…going to be fine. Back on Galactica. He said – I thought…"

Dr Charminder's hand rested smooth and warm on Hotdog's, russet complexion contrasting with his own, lighter tan.

"Doc said Nicky was going to be okay. He said it…"

"Mr Constanza – Brendan. I am sorry, but it _is_ chronic kidney disease, not _acute_ as it first presented itself to Doctor Cottle. Things have changed, and the tests indicate it is definitely chronic kidney disease. As near as we can ascertain–"

"What? I don't know what the frak that means." Hotdog felt angry heat shiver through him and his hands were clammy in his lap. Such a _stupid_ thing. He didn't understand the word. The _stupid_ frakking word. His son was _sick_ and Hotdog couldn't even understand what the godsdamned doctor was telling him.

"I'm sorry, Brendan. As near as we can tell, Nicky is stage four,"

"And what does that mean?" Hotdog pulled his hand away from Jasmine Charminder's comforting touch and interrupted her again, leaning back and glaring at her. His heart was godsdamned _burning_ in his chest, racing so hard it felt hard to breathe.

"I'm sorry, Brendan. Nicky's glomerular filtration rate is severely reduced – his kidney's are no longer functioning at a level that can support his body…"

Hotdog flashed out for a moment, the phrase 'no longer functioning' imprinted in his head.

" …There is also a loss of protein in his urine…"

What? What was that supposed to _mean_ to Hotdog? He didn't understand even a third of this doctor jargon _shit_.

"…And his test results show he is suffering from severe anaemia – which would be why he is so tired all the time–"

Hotdog shoved himself to his feet and stood in the middle of the dark, wide hallway, staring down at Dr Charminder whose face still relayed nothing but calm, grave, sympathy. He really hated that calm. It was easy for her. Wasn't _her_ kid. His hands were clenched into loose fists at his sides and they _trembled_ as he tried to keep himself from crumbling in front of her.

He still didn't know what it all _meant_.

"Stop saying this _shit_! Just tell me what's going to happen to my son!" He blinked back tears furiously.

"Please, just frakking tell me what's going to happen to Nicky."

"He needs a renal transplant. Gods, sorry –" Doctor Charminder apologised for her jargon, getting up and hovering nervously a foot away from Hotdog, both of them blocking the empty corridor.

"For him to have a chance at making it long term, he would need a kidney transplant."

Hotdog saw her swallow hard and his gut wrenched at him.

"What about, um… Can't you do, um – those _diasis_ things? Clean his blood for him or something?"

"_Dialysis_." She corrected him automatically and Hotdog understood it was only automatic and still wanted to slap the frak out of her.

"And no, it's not an option here. If we were back on the Colonies…" She sighed and looked away with a shrug,

"But we're not."

"Well what about the transplant?" Hotdog's voice sounded tight and desperate to his own ears, and the doctor looked away again.

"We can't do them here."

"Why not?" Hotdog turned away and pressed his palms against the opposite wall, head hanging down, staring at the metal floor of the hallway, trying to catch his breath, trying to breathe.

"Why godsdamned _not_?" He thumped one palm hard against the wall, trying to expel some of his frustration, and cursed a string of the filthiest words he knew, spitting them out with low, incoherent rage.

It wasn't godsdamned _fair_. _Shit_.

"Even if the transplant was successful and post-operative infection didn't set in – which is by no means assured in these conditions…well, we don't have any immuno-suppressants."

Hotdog shot her a glare of incandescent fury and she explained swiftly,

"Drugs to stop his body from recognising the transplanted kidney isn't his and attacking it. If he doesn't have the drugs, the transplanted kidney would be, well, killed by his own immune system."

"Can't you make the drugs?' He was grasping at straws and a corner of his frantic mind knew it. If Dr Charminder knew of a way to save Nicky then she would have told him.

"No. I'm so sorry, Brendan."

"Stop saying you're frakking sorry!" Hotdog took a pace towards her, stopped, took a step away again. His head was frakking tearing itself to shreds. Confused, no godsdamned idea what to feel or what to think except _pain_ and _anger_.

"Saying you're sorry doesn't make Nicky better. It doesn't _fix _him. Does it?"

"I can give you some time to…if you need to…"

"Frak! I'm sorry, Doctor. I know it's not your fault that Nicky's…" _Dying_? His mind finished the thought. Gods_damnit_. Hotdog made his feet stop pacing and ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the coarse strands.

"Frak."

He breathed hard through his nose, trying to get a godsdamned grip. His mind skipped back to Galactica. He had to pull his frakking act together. When you had three raiders on your tail and your wing mates had their own troubles, you couldn't afford to lose it. Panic and it was over – you might as well suicide. It was all about _keeping it together_. Keeping cool and calm in the face of terror. Focusing on the moment, not thinking about the 'what ifs', not letting your fear consume you, take you over. But this wasn't the same. It wasn't the godsdamned same at all.

Hotdog glanced up at Dr Charminder sharply. Snapped the awful question out,

"How long has he got?"

"I don't like to make predictions, Brendan. These things…they vary vastly from patient to patient."  
"_Make a prediction_, Doctor. Just give me an estimate. _Please_."

"In Nicky's case, it could be as much as a year or more, but that is a…very optimistic estimate. More likely he has six months – nine months at the most. The decline can happen slowly, or very fast. It depends on so many different factors. I'm sorry I can't be more accurate, Brendan, but…"

Hotdog barely noticed when she trailed off. He sat back down on one of the chairs lining the wide, dark hallway. Buried his head in his hands. A year or more at the most. For frak's sake, that was insane. Just insane. Unbelievable. As it sank in, he was vaguely surprised at what he was feeling. He wasn't _sad_, wasn't _angry_, wasn't overwhelmed with _grief_.

He was filled with despair.

Bottomless, empty, black despair, that ate him up and swallowed him down whole.

"So, six months, then?" He mused hollowly, picking the more conservative estimate and Dr Charminder hissed slightly through her teeth, the slight sound full of pity.

"As I said, it could be almost anything, but yes, around six months is probable."

"He's so little." Hotdog said in a wondering voice, and felt the heat from Dr Charminder's body as she stepped close to him, hand hovering uncertainly above his shoulder, as though she wasn't sure whether he wanted comfort or not. Her fingers gripped Hotdog's shoulder firmly and he didn't pull away or lean into the touch. He didn't have it in him to care enough to respond at this point.

"He's so little. Only a baby really." Tears beaded in his eyes and his throat stung and burnt with suppressed sobs.

Hotdog couldn't understand it. It was beyond understanding. He pressed his lips together hard, eyes watery with tears, his vision blurred as he stared vaguely at a bolt in the wall opposite.

"You love him very much. And he knows that." Dr Charminder told him gently and the tears in Hotdog's eyes spilt over.

"I do." His voice was choked and his tears wet his cheeks, sobs trying to force their way out through his constricted throat and failing.

"I love him. So – so godsdamned much." He couldn't speak any more. His hand covered his mouth and nose and he bit his tongue until the pain of it pushed back everything else. Dr Charminder was silent beside him, hand steadying on his shoulder as he tried to understand and failed, hand smearing away the tears that wouldn't stop flowing.

It was too much. Hurt, too much.

"Gods. He's – he's…he's just a baby."

"This can't be happening."

"Not Nicky."

"Not my Nicky."

"Oh, _gods_."

# # #

"Hera, sweetie, don't bother Uncle Saul." Ellen hurried over with an apologetic glance at Saul, scooping up the little girl and sitting her back at the table, where thick paper was spread out, a chunk of charcoal at one side for drawing.

"Come on, why don't you draw a picture for mama or daddy?"

Hera pursed up her mouth, little nose wrinkling.

"No. Want to draw a picture for Unca Saw."

Ellen snickered to herself – for a good little talker, Hera just didn't seem able to get Saul's name right. She could seem him scowling to himself as he tried fruitlessly to ignore the chatter and noise at the other end of the room. The Agathons had dropped their daughter off at the crack of dawn on the way to the hospital, and Saul had not been pleased – he had disappeared off to Joe's straight after breakfast, and for once Ellen thought he had been pleased to have a Council meeting to attend. But he had run out of things to trade Joe for, and now was stuck at home; trying to read a battered old romance Ellen had borrowed from a friend and ignore Hera's blatant curiosity toward him. She smiled to herself – _Saul_, reading a romance. He must hate himself for reading it, and, she suspected, actually enjoying it.

"What are you going to draw, Hera?"

"A _flower_." Hera declared, dark curls falling around her face as she carefully pressed the lump of charcoal against the paper, a rather deformed flower slowly emerging.

"How nice. I'm sure Uncle Saul would _love_ a flower."

"No he wouldn't." Came grumpy dissent from across the room.

"Yes he would." Ellen caught Saul's eye and shot him a raised-eyebrow warning glare.

"No. He wouldn't." Saul mumbled stubbornly, and stuck his nose back into the book with a harrumph.

# # #

"What's happening?" Helo demanded, hovering anxiously next to Doc Cottle who was washing his hands in a large basin in the corner of the hospital room.

"Doc! What the frak is happening?" He flashed glances at Sharon sitting up in the bed; gripped by another contraction, clutching a nurse's hand and making an awful quiet groaning sound through gritted teeth. Gods this was frakking torture for Helo – he hated to think how awful it must be for _Sharon_. How could she stand it?

"We'll talk outside." Doc Cottle jerked his head toward the doorway and the two men made their way toward it.

"Wait!" Sharon snapped at them past her pain, panting, forehead wet with sweat and eyes hollow and dull, flashing a little now with focus.

"You aren't going out there to talk about me behind my – ugh – godsdamned back, are you?"

"Sharon…" Helo jittered on the inside even though he appeared cool if frighteningly tense on the outside. If the Doc didn't think she should hear it, then maybe she shouldn't hear it. She had enough to worry about right now.

"Don't _Sharon_ me, Karl. I'm the one – ah – in frakking labour. Don't try and – mmph – hide the situation from me." The nurse holding her hand winced and Sharon glanced wild-eyed at her,

"Sorry." She dropped the woman's hand and bit her lip, breathing quick and shallow. Helo and Doc Cottle waited for the contraction to pass, Helo giving Sharon his hand to squeeze to replace the nurse's. Gods, she had a good frakking grip on her. It felt like every tiny bone in his hand was being ground together. He kept his mouth shut. If this helped, he didn't care if she crushed his godsdamned hand to pulp.

The contraction passed, and Helo felt it going as Sharon's death-grip on his hand eased. When she let him go he took a wet cloth and wiped her forehead, smiled at her,

"You okay?"

"Surviving." She managed a shaky smile, heaved a sigh.

"So, what's the problem, Doc?" She turned her attention to Cottle, dark eyes steady and face contained. She was holding it together amazingly, and Helo was in awe of her. That was Sharon – able to cope with anything life threw at her with an iron resolve. He wrung out the cloth and laid it across her forehead.

Cottle shifted uncomfortably, lined face as worried as it ever looked.

"You're not progressing. It's been coming up on eleven hours since labour began, you're still at four centimetres dilated, and the baby is starting to show signs of distress." Cottle lit a cigarette, and neither Helo nor Sharon complained. Second hand smoke was the least of their problems right now.

"So what do we do?" Helo was the first to shatter the deathly silence, his hand having found its way to Sharon's again. Their interlocked fingers clutched together tightly.

"We don't have a lot of options at this point." Cottle took a drag on his cigarette, exhaled a plume of smoke.

"I don't want to operate if we can avoid it. Too many things that can go wrong. That leaves us with either leaving things alone for now and seeing if you begin progressing naturally – which of course could happen."

Helo didn't think Cottle looked particularly like he thought labour would start going normally, but he held his tongue, not wanting to scare Sharon any worse than she already was.

"But that carries risks, however. Things can also go badly very quickly. The other option is that I can give you something to try and speed labour along. We still have a small stock of oxytocin that would augment labour. Unfortunately, it expired quite a while ago, which can degrade the strength of the drug and make it difficult to know the exact dosage you're receiving." Cottle didn't sound any more hopeful about that option than the previous, his tone reserved, puffing away on his cigarette and blowing the smoke out the half-opened door into the hospital corridor.

"What are the risks of that, then?" Sharon's nails were biting into Helo's palm as she asked Cottle, voice tightening.

"With excessive dosages of oxytocin, there is a possibility that it could cause tetanic uterine contractions, and uterine rupture. Normally, I wouldn't worry about that, even with the drug being expired, but being that you had a caesarean previously, oxytocin is generally contra-indicted, as the risk for uterine rupture is higher. The scar tissue is weaker, you see, and when combined with the drug being expired and the strength of it probably somewhat inaccurate, well…"

"Gods." Helo murmured, fear striking through him. He felt stunned, an animal frozen in a stream of blinding light. This was serious. Suddenly, it was deathly serious. Their options were limited and none of them good, and all of a sudden Helo realised that Sharon could _die_.

"So you can't just operate?"

"I'd rather wait until it's unavoidable. My recommendation as the doctor here," Cottle turned to Sharon,

"Is to move you to the operating theatre and prepare you for surgery, just in case, give you a minimal dose of oxytocin, and monitor you and the baby closely. Give it a bit of time, and see how things go, and if anything goes wrong, we'll be able to operate on the spot."

Helo looked to Sharon. Her hand began to clamp around his tighter and she gasped, free hand clutching her belly. Another contraction.

"Sharon, what do we do?"

She was pale and her hand clammy in his, small blotches of red burning on her cheeks in contrast to her otherwise sallow look. Helo rubbed his thumb over her hand,

"Sharon?"

"What – what Cottle said." She gasped out, whimpering slightly and then biting her lip. She was trying not to cry out, he could tell. Trying to be stoic. Gods.

"So, operating theatre, oxytocin, monitoring? You're okay with that?" Helo double-checked that Sharon knew what she was saying and she managed a tiny jerk of her head, eyes squeezed half-shut and focused on nothing.

"Yeah."

"Right." Doc Cottle nodded to the nurse, who hovered by the foetal monitoring readout,

"Let's get them through to the theatre."

Helo had to let go of Sharon's hand, pull himself free as she clutched at him, standing back as Cottle and the nurse swiftly and coolly organised things. He watched from a distance as they unclipped monitors and unlocked the bed's wheels, rolling her out the door briskly. Helo felt helpless, useless, frightened.

"Karl?" Sharon tried to twist on the bed to see him as they wheeled her out the door, him following hesitantly behind the bed, rubbing his sleeve roughly across his damp forehead.

"I'm here, it's okay, Sharon. Everything's going to be fine. Okay? Everything is going to be just fine." Helo told her, and he knew as the words left his mouth tight and terrified, that she would believe him about as much as he believed himself.

# # #

_Author's Note: _ So, what did you think of this chapter, dear readers? Please leave a _review_! The more reviews I get, the more motivated I am to write, and I need me some of that fine motivation at the moment.

I like writing insecure-and-rather-emotional-Romo. He's so _cute_ when he's having human emotions! Just like a real person – except a cynical and damaged lawyer person. I just wanna – *ahem* Um, anyway, I hope it doesn't make him out of character. I want to expand on and give further depth to his character, not alter it horribly. Have I succeeded in my goals or failed miserably?

The scene with Hotdog and Nicky … Oh my god, that killed me, writing it. I have a toddler myself and I was trying to picture myself in Hotdog's situation, which…_ugh_. Ugh, ugh! I was sniffling away (listening to Color Blind by Counting Crows to help nurture the suitable depressing atmosphere) while I wrote it and felt like it was as realistic as I could get it. I really hope it comes across as a genuinely emotive and realistic parental reaction to that kind of situation – it's hard to tell objectively if something works when you're the one who wrote it.

So please, _comment_ and let me know – did I succeed in breaking all of your hearts? Or at least denting them slightly?

Oh, and haven't the Agathons been having a good run of life lately? Everything has been going _just so well_. And when a person is too happy on BSG for too long, what happens then? *evil laugh* No one on BSG is ever safe from terrible, terrible things. Just sayin'…

All the medical facts are courtesy of Wikipedia and/or bits of knowledge I have gleaned elsewhere from books/the internet/real life, so should be _relatively_ medically accurate, but not incredibly so. There are probably all sorts of holes and glaring errors. Please be kind and overlook them. Again I bring your attention to the 'I am lazy' excuse mentioned in the beginning author's note.

Next chapter is _Part Three – Determination and Blood_ and may not be up for another 5 days or so (hopefully less).


	3. Part Three - Determination and Blood

_Author's Notes:_ Thank you as always to everyone who has taken the time to review this series! I've been really slack lately – real life has been crazy busy – and I haven't even started on _Episode Six: The Domino Effect_ yet. I have it mostly plotted, I just need to start writing it, and I may not get a chance to focus on that for a wee while. Sooo, there may be a hiatus of up to a month between the finish of this Episode and Episode Six. I just have to get my arse into gear and get it done.

# # #

_Part Three – Determination and Blood_

A figure wrapped in layers of clothing that were now little more than rags traipsed slowly across the mountainous terrain, struggling on his long journey over the hills and down through the lusher pockets of valley. He was forced into following the line of the coast east, although southeast was the direction he needed to take; the dry and parched desert lay south, and the salty waters of the sea lapped at the north. The weather was finally growing warmer as he made his slow and aching way through the unforgiving landscape toward the settlement on feet that grew bloody and blistered through worn and holey shoes. The steppes lay far north behind him now; across the narrow waters of the strait he had crossed a number of days ago – he had forgotten, the days and nights blending together.

His head was hunched down and his shoulders hunched up, hands hanging limply by his sides as he forced himself to keep taking step after step, up the gently sloping hill, through the thick, tangled grasses that reached his knees. The dome of the sky was swamped with roiling greys and thunderous navies, and the rain fell steadily on his bowed head, his eyes seeing but not taking in the small bright winkings of rain-wet flowers scattered through the grass. His feet squelched in their useless, tied together husks of shoes, and his hair dripped water in runnels and trickles into his eyes; but he was too tired to lift his hand to push his hair off his face .

He wasn't sure exactly what drove him to keep going when he wanted to just fall down and wait for death to crawl over him.

The fat had melted from his bones, and now his body was so starved it was beginning to consume his muscle mass – his formerly solid frame nearing skeletal proportions. His stomach had shrunk to the point that even if he trapped a small animal or found a large amount of edible vegetation – a rare occurrence while on the move like this – he could barely fit in more than a few mouthfuls at a time. At least he had flint and a blade to start fire with. Without that he wouldn't have been able to boil water or cook the meagre food he caught and gathered, and food poisoning would have killed him long ago.

He didn't know why he kept going.

Traversing rough terrain, walking miles on a three-day empty stomach and half a litre of water, climbing down sheer cliff faces and shredding the flesh of his hands through the rags he wrapped them in. Eating bugs and critters that tasted like frakking shit and made him want to vomit. Walking on, and on, and on, when his knees felt like useless jelly and his feet like raw meat.

He didn't know why he kept going.

There were places he could have stopped and settled in. Eked out a reasonable existence. Places with rich soil and plenty of game, natural shelter, fresh water – slices of heaven, really, where he could have lived like the lonely hermit he had left the settlement to become. Perfect settling places that he had just passed through with only a few days pause to rest his battered, worn body and restock his supplies.

He just kept going, like a mysterious inexorable force was dragging him back.

He didn't know why he kept going.

He did.

Nicky. He hadn't done right by the boy. He may not have been his blood, but Galen Tyrol had still been the only father Nicky had known, and he had just dumped him in Hotdog's arms. Up and left him without a backward glance. Thrown him away, like just because Nicky wasn't his blood, that all that worry, all that joy – all those tears and late night feedings and nappy changes and seeing him smile for the first time and holding him close and smelling his sweet baby scent…like none of that had mattered a godsdamned bit.

Tears sprang into Galen's eyes and he gritted his teeth and swallowed dryly, the delicate membranes in his throat tearing a little.

He stopped for a while on the hillside, laying down on the grass and opening his mouth, letting the heavy rain splash on his face freely, running over his tongue and down his throat, soothing and cooling. Time passed. Galen roused himself enough to lay a jacket out over a patch of flattened grass, letting the rain puddle into the dip he formed in the nylon, and when the small dip had filled, he tipped the collected water carefully into his canteen, and forced his feet to begin moving again. He had to find shelter before nightfall came on – had to get warm and dry, or the chill night air would drain him of what little strength he had left to him.

He had to keep going.

Galen's mind flew back to Nicky; to his dispassionate abandonment of the baby. He had acted like Nicky hadn't meant a thing to him. In his defence, he'd been frakking messed up at the time. His relationship with Cally falling apart, finding out he was a frakking Cylon, Cally's reaction to that – Galen flinched, remembering – and then discovering after all that, that Nicky wasn't his? It had all combined; all the strain and stress and the fear and the despair had stripped his ability to feel from him, leaving him a stark, empty shell.

He had told himself that for all his youth and…well, that Hotdog would probably make a better father for Nicky; better than Galen anyway. He had told himself that leaving Nicky, giving him to Hotdog, had been the right decision for the baby. And it was, in a way. Hotdog _was_ Nicky's biological father, after all.

And then Galen had left Nicky with Hotdog and tried to forget about him, to erase the son he'd thought he had from his memory.

Left the Eights, their visages creating Boomer everywhere and reminding him constantly of his loss, his mistakes.

Left _everyone_ – not always people he wanted to be around, but still…they were all he had, even if he didn't always like them and they didn't always like him.

And when he had left, Galen had told himself that Nicky wasn't his son, and that he didn't love Nicky so much that being away from him tore his heart into tiny, bleeding shreds.

No. He was just fine.

Except here he was, trekking back to the settlement, half-dead and still walking. Back to the people – human and Cylon – who he had said he never wanted to see again. To the multiple copies of the woman he had loved more than Cally, although it made him ashamed to admit it, a part of him hoping that one of them might…be like Boomer. And Galen _did_ miss Nicky. He couldn't forget no matter how hard he tried. And his heart _was_ tearing into tiny bleeding shreds. And he would share Nicky with that frakking kid Hotdog, happily, if that were what it took.

He kept going because…

Galen Tyrol kept going because ultimately, he thought, he needed his son.

# # #

"You haven't seen Jake, have you?" Romo eyed the new guard outside his home questioningly. Marcia, he believed her name was – Marcia Case, but like so many of the ex-pilots, she still went by her call sign, Showboat.

"No, I haven't Mr President." She answered blithely, eyes pausing in their scan of the surrounds and flickering to him. Romo frowned. The damned bloody dog had been gone all day now, and no one had seen hide nor hair of him. Something wasn't right. Jake never disappeared for this long, at least, not without stopping home for a visit and a treat at regular intervals. Sort of letting Romo know he was alright, or so Romo liked to think – but then he always did have a tendency to anthropomorphise things.

"Sir?" Marcia was leaning in toward Romo, her eyes squinted and face telegraphing puzzled concern, and with a start Romo realised he'd just been standing on his doorstep like a statue. Lost in thought and a growing, niggling fear for Jake.

"Sorry, Showboat?"

"Um. I was just asking if you wanted me to get anyone out to look for Jake?" She asked slowly, and Romo shook his head.

"No, thank you Showboat, but I'm sure there's no need. There are more pressing concerns than a vanished dog, I'm sure." He tried to believe the words as he said them, and partially succeeded, pushing his concerns into the back of his mind. He had more important things to do himself – he planned on going to the hospital and meeting this Liara Addison himself. Perhaps…perhaps in seeing her, talking with her, he might be able to deliver a more convincing argument to the Council tomorrow. Besides, even if the Council voted against revoking the law, Romo Lampkin had other plans he wanted Dr Nerys and Miss Addison to be assured of. Romo Lampkin always had _plans_.

"I'm sure he'll turn up, sir." Showboat called after Romo as he latched his door behind him and turned in the direction of the hospital. He swung on his heel to face her, tugging his dark glasses down with a crooked finger to peer over them at her. Paused.

"I'm sure you're right. Of course you are." He repeated inanely, adding a beat later as an afterthought,

"Lock him inside if he turns up, will you?"

Showboat nodded once sharply, and smiled close-lipped at Romo,

"Sir." She acknowledged, and with a small nod and a vague wave, Romo continued off toward the hospital, his ever-present but thankfully discreet shadow of an LPO – Redwing, today – following a few paces behind in his wake.

The girl was short and as plump as people ever got these days, her skin burnt by the sun and peeling to reveal a pale complexion that wouldn't tan. Her prettiest feature was her hair; long and white-blonde, draping over her shoulders to her waist. Not that she was unattractive for her age – soft, symmetrical features, and when she smiled faintly at Romo her round face lit up.

"Mr President." She addressed him in a quiet, dreamy voice and held out her hand, seemingly completely undaunted by his position of power. Romo took an immediate liking to her. They shook, her small hand firm and warm in his.

"Miss Addison. I'd say it's a pleasure to meet you…but under these circumstances…"

"Yes." She answered softly, a quiet dignity in her tone and bearing,

"Of course."

Romo leaned back and closed the door to the small room, leaving Redwing in the corridor to silently guard the entrance. He wanted privacy for this conversation. He sat on the one chair in the room, leaving Liara Addison the bed, and Dr Nerys to stand against a wall and eye Romo carefully. A lioness guarding her young, her faded blue eyes hard and skinny arms crossed over her chest.

"The Council met to discuss your…predicament…earlier." Romo began, and Liara nodded.

"At this point, I have no good news to deliver, I regret to inform you. The Council has adjourned until tomorrow, to give the Councillors time to deliberate fully over their answers."

Liara nodded again, nervousness only slightly betrayed in the biting of her lower lip, the fidgeting of her hands in her lap, feet dangling off the edge of the bed and swinging absentmindedly.

"How do you think the vote will go, Mr President?" Dr Nerys cut in on behalf of her young patient, a crisp demand. Romo tugged his dark glasses down his nose. Paused and took them off altogether, folding them up carefully and cradling them in one hand. He met Liara's dreamy brown eyes,

"The Council is split. This is not a simple issue in their eyes. For decades, the topic of…"

"You _can_ say it, Mr President, sir. I _am_ getting an abortion – it would be silly for the word to upset me." She was smiling and calm, and Romo found himself entranced by her serene self-control, even under such stress as this. Waiting to find out the outcome of a decision that would alter the rest of her life she was more composed than many adults would be. He cleared his throat, feeling slightly ashamed for skirting the word,

"Yes. Of course. For decades, the issue of abortion has been a source of contention for the colonies. I don't know if you learnt of it at school before the Fall – you were probably too young – but for twenty-seven years, six colonies have been vocally in favour of abortion, and six, to varying degrees, against it. Regardless of the opposing six, the law that had been upheld for hundreds of years, was that every colony must provide adequate abortion services."

"Well, what's this got to do with Liara, Mr President?" Nerys broke in, impatient and brusque.

"I am wending my slow way there, Doctor." Romo raised an eyebrow at Dr Nerys and she subsided with a grumble. Liara's warm amber eyes were fixed on Romo's, showing nothing but placid interest.

"When Laura Roslyn passed the Criminalisation of Abortion Act, she upended hundreds of years of tradition, but she also validated the fiercely-held opinions of the many anti-abortion people within the fleet. Now that they have been given a foothold, it will be difficult to remove them." Romo thought for a moment, head tilted to the side.

"If I am truthful with you, Miss Addison," She nodded for him to continue,

"Then I believe the chances of the law being revoked is around 50/50. There is a mixture of people on the Council, and between moral misgivings and the worries about increasing the population as quickly as possible to prevent our species dying out…well, the situation is by no means assured."

"Godsdamnit." Dr Nerys snapped under her breath,

"Stupid godsdamned bureaucrats. Haven't they heard of bodily autonomy?"

"They are, as you just pointed out, Doctor, bureaucrats." Romo commented dryly,

"I have no doubt they are aware of the concept, but why would you think they would care overmuch?"

"You do." Dr Nerys' face lifted to him, fierce with barely suppressed emotion.

"Yes, well. _I_ am merely an eccentric lawyer who by some cosmic joke, happens to be President. I am not a clutching bureaucrat, and pray to the bloody gods I never will be."

"So you think they won't let me?" Liara asked quietly, and Romo realised suddenly that she was still in the room – she was so quiet he had forgotten her. This situation wasn't just an intellectual problem for Liara Addison like it was for Romo; it was her reality. Her future on the line. He felt ashamed at his flippancy.

"I don't know, Miss Addison. I will present my argument to the Council tomorrow. I was hoping to talk to you to hear your story, and relate some of it to the Council – inject some meaning into the issue beyond the abstract. Make my argument emotive, rather than purely logical." He tipped his head at her, eyebrows rising slightly,

"Would that be all right – may I ask you some questions, Miss Addison?"

"If you think it will help, Mr President." Liara met his gaze unflinchingly, no trace of shame in her eyes, just a flicker of fear that made him feel desperately sorry for her.

Liara related her situation without much emotion – no tears, just the occasional long pause and pursing of her wide mouth, her large brown eyes never leaving Romo's face. Just the facts – and except for the minor personal details, it was essentially the same common position that so many girls might find themselves in, her voice still dreamy and quiet, drifting across the room to him. Dr Nerys watched him as Romo sat just as still as Liara Addison and listened intently, and Nerys' sharp expression softened a little as she observed him.

"Thank you, Miss Addison." Romo said when Liara fell silent at last, and he had no more questions to ask. He would do his godsdamned best to plead her case. He just hoped that his best would be enough.

He stood and replaced his dark glasses, and halfway across the room, paused and turned back to Liara, Nerys' arm around her now.

"If the law isn't revoked, you'll get that abortion anyway, Miss Addison."

"But…" Nerys' protested, and Romo stilled her protest with a look.

"If you are willing, doctor, I am sure that at this early stage of pregnancy, an abortion could be done quietly, and passed off as a miscarriage brought on by strain."

"Of course it could, Mr President, but…"

"I will not have Miss Addison's life ruined because of the decisions made by a body of people who will never be in her situation themselves." Romo interrupted, surprised at how strongly he felt about this.

"Mr President." Liara said meekly, and he turned his eyes to her. The large, faraway eyes, the abstracted hint of a smile, that if you hadn't just heard the girl speak so eloquently you might think indicated a certain mental lack.

"Miss Addison?"

"I think what Dr Nerys is trying to say – what I think too, is that while it's very kind of you to approve of a secretly done illegal abortion…well, that may help _me_, but what about all the women who come after me? I'm definitely not the only one in the settlement who is ever going to be in this situation, and, well, it just isn't fair that I should get a free pass, and everyone else…everyone else will have to suffer."

Her expression was earnest and Romo was taken aback at her utter lack of self-absorption. He would have thought a girl Liara's age would spare no thought for any _others_ who might also need terminations, but just be relieved at knowing she would get what she wanted. Once more, Romo felt a trickle of shame triggered by Liara worm into his mind. Such idealism was not something he could clutch to his chest; it had seeped out of him long ago, destroyed by the realities of life.

Romo hoped, pointlessly, that Liara Addison might be able to hold onto hers.

"No, it isn't fair. But, I do what I can, Miss Addison, and do not dwell on what I cannot do." He answered her, words coming out sterner than he meant them to be, and left the room with a swift nod, closing the door behind him with an odd sense of relief and sadness.

# # #

Long grass with a myriad of _scents_ – wafting into keen nostrils and evoking an ecstasy of _delight_. Legs bounding, leaping through the grass, the waving tips _tickling_ flanks and nose, dust rising and making itch and _poof_ came an expulsion of air. Snuffles, indignant at _sneeze_, paws still trotting. Exploring, marking out fresh territory, _expansion_ of domain. Heat soaking into length of lean back and top of sturdy head, blazing ball of light in clear _high-above_ strong and hot. Noise of two-legs very distant and faint to sharp ears; far, far away now as own four-legs travelled long and _quick_.

Feelings of excitement, curiosities being satisfied by _bold expedition_. Great green life rooted into earth climbing up mountain at one flank, tickling grasses spreading out further than four-legs could run in a day at the other flank. Consumed by excitement four-legs – his packmate called him _jake_, a strange sound not at all like one four-legs could make – cocked one hind leg and relieved himself on the skinny trunk of a brown-green rooted life. Mark his new territory, _define_ his place, his land.

_Jake _loped onward, a strange glee gripping him and making muscles surge with energy. Four-legs _jake_ had never been so far from two-legs territory before, and he yipped high with the uncontrolled glee of young wobbly four-legs. _Bounced_ in the air for joy, paws running in mid-air, feeling like big four-legs, boss four-legs; _brave_ and _fierce_.

Scent of big, big four-legs on air, ripe and _pungent_ and making _jake_ shiver at intense strength. Big, brown herd creatures with fur and grinding teeth for eating _yucky_ tickly dry grasses. _Jake_ was drawn to them, curious and _brave _and _fierce_. Legs running swift and light, carrying _jake_ far out onto plains, to survey herd of _brown-fur grass-eaters_. He cocked his leg and relieved himself again. If this land was marked as his, then big brown grass-eaters his too.

_Jake_ powerful four-legs, much territory – much domain. _Jake _thought of _good-smelling_ four-legs that dwelt in two-legs territory and pranced on _happy_ paws. Female four-legs would find big, _brave_ and _fierce_ four-legs _jake_ irresistible. He raced down toward herd at quick fast pace, strong legs _whirling_ below body, yipping at brown-fur grass-eaters, making nervous scents emanate from them. Frightening the huge creatures.

_Jake_ was _brave _and _fierce_ four-legs.

He barked and yipped, toying with grass-eaters, _herding_ them, dancing clear of occasional _kicking_ hoof big and dangerous. _Jake_ was mighty four-legs. _Jake_ was…

_Pain_ and _screams_ howling from _jake's_ drawn back lips, hestumbled and _screamed_ and mind splintered apart.

_Pain, pain, pain_.

He staggered from big brown-fur grass-eaters, no comprehension of what had wounded him, what had _hurt _him. Too confused, thoughts _reeling_ and filled with _pain_, overflowing with _pain_. He staggered from grass-eaters so they could not _trample_ him and _crush_ him with big hard hooves, reacting on four-legs instinct not thought. Place where one front leg met chest hurt with _explosion_ of agony and wet, wet, wet, _dripped_ over fur and spatted on grasses and dirt beneath struggling paws. Stick weapon that caused _hurt_ still deep in flesh, catching on ground and pulling at wound, making agony _bloom._

Wind changed as _jake _forced his body made of _pain _away from restive grass-eaters, and he caught the scent of two-legs above his _hurt, hurt, hurt_. _Strange_ two-legs, not familiar or _friend_, and _jake _knew who had hurt him then. Saw them as he limped fast and stumbling away on three-legs, their muzzle-less faces making eerie ululating noises from mouth-holes, dancing with joy like _jake _had before two-legs had _hurt_ him. He _whimpered_ like young scared four-legs, struggling away from bad two-legs as fast as his _hurt_ body could go.

Thick sharp brown stick in flesh, dragging on ground and _poking_ deep in wound. _Jake_ twisted his head and clamped strong jaws around stick, tugging with teeth and yowling with _hurt_ as the stick came free with fresh _pain_. Big _hole_ in flesh and fluttering panic seeped into _jake's _scattered mind; lots of dark thick _life_ flowing out of hole. Leaving body.

He licked wound quickly but _life_ kept running out and _jake_ whimpered again. He smelt _bad_ two-legs coming closer and made himself stop licking wound despite _urge_ and _instinct_. Ran as fast as he could on just _three legs_, front paw drawn up to chest, _life _still running out. Ran for friendly two-legs settlement, for packmate who called him _jake_ and was _safety_ and _home_.

Body made of pain, wild _joy_ all gone, run out onto ground with wet dark _life_ and _hurt_.

All gone.

Stumbling back, back to packmate, _jake_ forced himself to make legs move – stagger whimpering through _pain_ and fear. He _would_ make it back to two-legs who called him _jake_, who made him pack and took care of him.

_Jake_ was _brave_ and _fierce_.

# # #

It was early in the morning, after midnight but before dawn, in those dark witching hours. The makeshift operating theatre was tiny and as brightly lit as Cottle could make it, in case they needed to operate. Helo was exhausted and running on pure adrenaline, and he had no idea how Sharon managed to keep going. Labour was progressing finally, after a judicious dose of oxytocin in the early evening, but the baby still hadn't been born. It was taking so godsdamned long, and with every hour that passed Helo saw Cottle's face grow harder, more drawn. He knew that couldn't be a good sign. Helo rubbed Sharon's hand where it wrapped around his wrist, leaning over the bed so his forehead rested against her clammy one.

"It'll be okay, Sharon. You're doing wonderfully. You're amazing. It'll be fine. You can do this." He murmured a low litany of encouragement in her ear, and wasn't sure if at this point she even comprehended him, giving him no answer. Her dark eyes were far away and narrowed with the fierce concentration that coping with the pain took from her, lips chapped and dry from lack of water. He had tried on Cottle's orders to trickle it into her mouth from a cloth, but she kept throwing it up – nothing staying down. But thirst had to be sapping her already fading strength.

Helo had never been so afraid, not even when Hera had been born. Then, then he had only been afraid for Hera – now he realised all too well, that he could lose Sharon too.

"You can do this, Sharon. You're strong. I know you can. I'm here. You can do this." He kept talking, the nurse and Cottle fading into the background, unimportant. They may as well have not been there, as Helo's universe shrank down to him and Sharon. Her hair matted to her head, face pale and clammy as she sweated out precious liquid, hand clamped around his wrist like he was her lifeline.

"You can do this." He didn't know what else to say, mind fogged with exhaustion and the strain of constant fear, as a contraction seized her body again, her own muscles squeezing her like she was a rag doll.

Sharon screamed suddenly then, louder than she had yet, and her nails dug hard enough into Helo's wrist to break the skin. He yelped in surprise and instinctively yanked his wrist away, in the next second calling her name as her face twisted horribly.

"Sharon? Sharon! Are you –"

"_Doctor_ – foetal heart rate is crashing, doctor." The words snapped quick and horrified from the nurse's lips interrupting Helo's panic and he felt his breath freeze in his lungs, his chest constrict with shock, terror increasing.

"_Frak_!" Cottle pushed Helo out of the way and lifted the sheet from over Sharon's legs, briskly and without forewarning examining her, no time for pleasantries,

"Frak, she's started bleeding vaginally – Sharon, Sharon, tell me – what did you just feel?" Cottle demanded and Sharon whimpered, sweat soaking her face,

"_Pain_. Like…like a ripping feeling." She gasped through paling lips and then made an awful high groaning sound.

"Doc, what –"

"Her uterus has ruptured. She's bleeding into her abdominal cavity." Cottle was talking more to the nurse than Helo, his lined hands palpating Sharon's distended belly.

"Baby's still settled head down in the pelvis – feels like it's in the uterus and hasn't gone into the abdominal cavity. I'm guessing the rupture isn't a major one, but the bleeding's heavy." Cottle was moving about Sharon with controlled haste, hands steady as he did things with tubes and needles that Helo couldn't quite see.

His own hands shook; clenched into fists, face white as he stared at Sharon from the corner he'd been pushed back into. She didn't seem fully aware of what was happening – her head pressed back into the pillows and hands splayed into tense claws at her sides, back arched slightly with tension. Her mouth was open and twisted and breathy screams escaped, eyes crinkled tight shut. Helo wanted to go to her, to take her hand and try to reassure her, but he would only get in the way. He clenched his jaw and watched. Oh gods. She couldn't die. She couldn't.

"I have the ether." The nurse said, voice carrying clearly to Helo. Doc Cottle was scrubbing up to the elbow with soap,

"Put her under, Marcy." He told the nurse, who held the mask containing an ether soaked cloth over Sharon's face. Sharon shoved at it, thrashed on the bed, and then began to fall still. Helo held his breath. Sharon's head lolled to one side and the nurse laid it straight, as Doc Cottle approached Sharon's belly – Helo's view obstructed by a shielding hospital sheet Cottle had hastily erected. He was vaguely glad for that – he didn't know if he could stand seeing her cut open.

"Doc? Is she going to make it? Is the baby going to make it?" Helo couldn't help himself, heart pounding so hard in his chest that it hurt, stomach lurching with sick fear. He stepped forward toward Cottle and the Doctor glared at Helo briefly,

"I need to concentrate here, boy. It's your wife under my knife – I can't have any frakking distractions. Get back in the godsdamned corner, or leave."

Helo felt tears well up and blinked them back, muscles in his jaw jumping and twitching as he clenched it, biting down on his tongue. Frak, she couldn't die. Couldn't leave him – and Hera. Oh gods, _Hera_. Helo couldn't do it alone. He couldn't…

"I just need to know Doc – she's my wife, _I need to know_! Tell me the godsdamned odds! Is she going to die?" Helo approached Cottle and saw an unwanted glimpse of what Cottle was doing behind the screen; Sharon's abdomen…oh gods. Bile tried to crawl up his throat and he choked it back down, stomach churning, averting his eyes.

"_Please_, Doc."

"Someone get this frakker out of here!" Doc Cottle yelled and Helo stared at him in bewilderment. Why wouldn't he answer? Was it because Sharon was probably going to… going to die? Fear erased the rising anger and frustration he felt towards Cottle and struck him silent. Helo stared at Cottle, mouth opening and shutting wordlessly, eyes darting to Sharon's face and fists trembling at his sides. With her body limp and eyes shut, her skin so ashen, she looked like a corpse already. Oh gods _no_.

Hands grabbed at Helo's upper arms, pulling his frozen but unresisting body back. He stumbled back with the motion, eyes locked to Sharon's still body. He couldn't tell if her chest was moving or not. He couldn't tell if she was breathing. _He couldn't tell_. He couldn't breath himself, hands blankly grabbing the door frame as those disembodied hands dragged him from the room; resisting now, desperate to be at Sharon's side. Feel her breath. Not quite fighting the hands pulling him away, just trying to stay. To _stay_.

"Calm the frak down or we _will _sedate you for your own good, Mr Agathon."

"Sharon. Godsdamnit, Sharon!" His body felt heavy and strange, and everything seemed to be moving so slowly, like a dream, as they yanked him free from the doorframe and pulled him into the hall. A nightmare. Helo's eyes were still pinned on Sharon's body as he tried to dig his heels in – stay where he was now, where he could see her. Not fighting anymore though – he didn't want to be sedated if she… He still couldn't tell if she was breathing, and the nurse was at her face with the ether, the Doc bent over her abdomen and Helo could see blood smeared up to Cottle's wrists. Oh gods.

Everything went funny and the corridor spun and Helo heaved the meagre contents of his stomach all over the floor, retching until his throat felt dry and bleeding. Another disembodied hand rubbed his back, a voice said things in a soft, soothing voice, but Helo didn't comprehend it, too busy vomiting, nothing left but bile that seared his throat and made his eyes water helplessly. And when the seizure passed, at last, Helo looked up and saw the door to the theatre had been closed. He couldn't see her anymore. She was gone.

# # #

_Author's Notes:_ So, this chapter… My favourite part to write was the segment from Jake's perspective. It was a lot of fun to try and put myself in a dog's head. Although I did feel bad for poor Jake :(

Anyway, I want to know, so please tell me in one of those lovely things, _reviews_ - did the scene work? Did it seem doggy-ish?

Also, the character we got a glimpse of back in Part Four of _Episode Two: Is This What You Wanted?_ was Galen Tyrol, and here we get to see him again. In the show's series finale, we see that he is going to head north – probably all the way up to Britain/Northern Europe, I think the idea was. Or that's what I got from it. But 150,000 years ago, most of that area was covered in glaciers.

So in my series, Tyrol travelled up from Tanzania, through Sudan, Libya and Algeria - skirting the Sahara desert – and gone around the coast to Morocco and crossed the Gibraltar Strait (seven kilometres across at its narrowest point), which evidence suggests Neanderthals may have managed to cross by raft/boat. I chose this route, as I suspected it _might_ be shorter than going around through Egypt, Israel etc.

From Gibraltar Strait, Tyrol travelled up through Spain and France, crossing the cold steppes of Europe only to find unliveable snow and glaciers ahead of him. And on his journey, he realised that his desire to leave was a reaction to all the sudden upheaval and trauma that he had experienced – he was running away from everything. And as time passed, he began to actually miss everyone – especially Nicky. So he began the long journey home.

In this scene, he's in the hilly coastal region of Algeria, where it rains a great deal, apparently. I've tried to be as geographically accurate and as realistic as possible, but of course I have probably made some mistakes…

And then, Sharon Agathon… Oh I love cliffhangers. Our poor Helo is not having his best day ever. It was a really fun scene to write, actually – I think I love torturing the poor characters as much as the show writers seemed to. Do _you_ think he reacted realistically and in character?

Please leave a _comment_ and let me know what you thought of the chapter. I feed off your reviews :)


	4. Part Four - A Spine of Steel

_Author's Note: _Thank you to everyone who has been reading and reviewing my series! I finally seem to be getting over the writer's block that has been plaguing me along with other RL business, and _Episode Five: The Domino Effect_ is _finally_ getting itself written. Yay, yay, yay!

_Enjoy!_

# # #

_Part Four – A Spine of Steel_

Nurse Marceline Jett took the small pale body from Cottle's hands; the tiny limbs flopping limply as she lowered the little form to the towel-covered table. Blue tinged from lack of oxygen, eyes slitted half shut. She worked swiftly with barely steady hands as Cottle paused in his own hurried work for a scant second,

"Is…?" He asked roughly, sentiment choking his throat. Marceline paid no mind to him, suctioning the mucus from the baby's mouth and throat and working over the little body,

"Breathe, baby, breathe." She whispered desperately, feeling totally inadequate. Marceline had only been working as a surgical nurse for a month. Two surgeries, to be precise, and she had never practiced obstetrics before.

"Come on, breathe!"

Her thoughts raced. They kept flicking back to those awful moments, the worst Marceline had experienced in her six months of nursing.

…The baby had been low down in the pelvis when Doc Cottle had opened Sharon up, head already moving into the birth canal. Cottle had sworn as he had freed the baby, hauling it through the comparatively small incision in Sharon Agathon's belly with no little effort. He had snapped for scissors and a cord clamp, and Marceline had retrieved them, heart racing and hands sweaty. Her stomach had lurched sickly as she'd looked at the horribly limp newborn Cottle cradled against his chest as his fingers fiddled urgently at the neonate's neck.

"Type B nuchal cord. You're gonna have to snip it."

Marceline had stared in terror for a split second, and then her body had automatically sprung into action. Clamp affixed, fingers scrabbling, slipping on the slick cord, trying to hook between the baby's tiny, fragile neck and the cord. She had managed it after what felt like an age, and slid the scissors gingerly through next to her fingers, gasping and flinching as the scissors slipped and scraped the baby's neck slightly. A tracery of red blood appeared on the soft flesh, and Marceline had whimpered and chastised herself as the scissors closed around one loop of the cord and cut. It had been surprisingly gristly and tough, but the surgical blades made short work of the first loop, and then the next, and the baby was free. Marceline had taken it from Cottle so he could turn his attention back to Sharon Agathon; tied down to the table so she didn't struggle if she woke, head lolling from the ether that Nora Oriana was applying, innards exposed to the room…

"Breathe!" Marceline pleaded, and then tears rushed to her eyes and she exhaled, a rush of disbelief and triumph as the baby's chest suddenly lifted and it inhaled sharply. Seconds later a thin wail issued weakly from its lips, and Marceline grinned, elation lighting her strained face.

"Oh _good_ baby, good," She glanced down as she wrapped the skinny wrinkled body up in the towel it lay on,

"Good _boy_." She finished, heart beating exultantly in her chest, tense muscles finally giving in to the tremors she had been suppressing. The newborn boy kept yowling; thin, reedy cries, and Marceline cuddled him to her chest and rocked him gently, uttering little hushing sounds from her lips. She checked him over, taking his Apgar score – one when she had first taken him from Cottle, the baby now was a six, and as his crying grew ever louder and cheeks began to flush pink, she upgraded it,

"He's got an Apgar of seven, Doctor."

"Good." The one, reticent word expressed a wealth of emotion, and Marceline smiled down at the baby, and then up at Cottle. He was still busy with Sharon, and Marceline felt a slight twinge, looking at the unconscious woman. She hoped she made it – it wouldn't be fair if she died, not now.

"Once you're finished, take him out to his father, Marcy." Cottle told her without looking up. Marceline nodded, realised he couldn't see her and assented verbally, unwrapping the rapidly pinking body to do a more extensive check of the wee baby, ecstatic with relief.

# # #

Cottle's fingers were quick and nimble inside Sharon Agathon's opened up abdomen as the door swung shut behind Marcy. The damage was severe – the rupture had split her uterus like an overripe fruit. He _could_ repair it well enough that it wouldn't need to be removed, but there was no way in hell that having children would ever be on the cards for her again. Her uterus was too weakened by the trauma sustained; another pregnancy would likely end in death for her and the foetus. She was unconscious, her husband was a wreck, and Cottle had to make a decision _now_. He paused in his motions, ignoring Nora's curious look, his hands poised above the incision. Godsdamnit. There was too high a possibility that Sharon could accidentally fall pregnant again – and it was a risk Cottle wasn't willing to allow.

"I'm going to perform a supracervical hysterectomy, Nora."

"Yes, Doctor." She replied briskly, glancing up at him with a question in her eyes, but saying nothing as she monitored Sharon's condition. Cottle didn't explain; he didn't need to justify the decision. It was the right one – the best option available. Cottle only hoped the Agathons agreed.

"Heartbeat stable, blood pressure low but steady." Nora informed Cottle, as she had periodically throughout the surgery and he nodded. The small operating theatre fell away, as he focused his full attention on Sharon Agathon's body. Cottle needed to make this quick – it wasn't good for Sharon to be under too long; especially with the amount of blood she had lost. Cottle cleared and centred his mind on the task in front of him, pushing away worries and doubts, putting total trust in his skill to keep Sharon alive.

# # #

Helo was huddled bent over on a chair in the hallway, head sunk into his hands, eyes red-rimmed and throat dry from retching earlier. It had been just over half an hour since he had been forcibly ejected from the theatre, and no one had told him yet whether Sharon was alive or dead. Helo's mind cringed and whimpered away from the thought, and he scraped his fingers over his scalp, small jerky motions, looking up at the wall opposite him, where the door to the theatre loomed. He couldn't hear a thing, and he had only gotten a sliver of a glimpse into the room, when the nurse had stuck her head out and called for another nurse, seeing him there and scurrying back in. And then, a few moments after that, Helo had seen Cottle standing by Sharon's body as the called for nurse rushed into the room, clicking the door shut behind her.

"Gods."

She could be lying in there dead by now. Already gone, and he wouldn't know. Helo jiggled his legs with nervous energy, wanting to get up and pace, wanting to curl into a ball and cry, and settling for staying where he was, eyes fixed on the plain grey door.

He couldn't live without Sharon. He couldn't. They had been through so much together. Been through so much to _be_ together – to even have a chance at what was easy for other people. So many things they had overcome, so many rules they had broken and attitudes they had fought against. And then finally, when they were accepted as just another family among many, this happened. It was like the gods hated him. The thought repeated in his head over and over – she couldn't die. He couldn't live without her. He couldn't live without her.

Tears leaked from his eyes and Helo couldn't summon up the energy to wipe them away, as hopelessness consumed him.

He watched the door, waiting for it to open, and dreading it opening. Expecting Cottle to come out with a grim expression, and tell him the worst. Tell him that Sharon was gone. Helo swallowed and it hurt, but the pain was minor compared to what he was feeling, and he ignored it.

A reel of life without Sharon rolled through his head, and Helo couldn't stop himself from imagining all the moments. Telling Hera. Trying to make her understand that her mama would never be coming back. Lying in bed at night without her next to him. Looking forward to seeing her when he got back from a hunt, only for her to not be there. Milestones in Hera's life that would not be shared with Sharon. Moments that she would never get to see. Seeing the Eights, and being reminded of Sharon every single time. Reminded of his loss.

He watched the door, and with each moment that ticked by, the certainty of Sharon's death grew in Helo's mind, rooting itself there tortuously. He was dragged down, further and further down into dark grief, any hope that Sharon might live crushed beneath the weight of fear.

Helo's hands clenched into fists and his breathing came jaggedly as he held back sobs.

He watched the door through a wavering sheen of tears.

It opened.

His heart stopped.

A nurse stepped through – a solid woman with short dark hair and mahogany skin, holding something in her arms and smiling gently at Helo. She shut the door behind her, held out the bundle, nodding down at it and then at him. A muted cry emerged from the bundle of blanket. Helo blinked, eyes widening with sudden comprehension, body tensing with hope. In all his fear for Sharon, he had forgotten about…

"It's a boy, Mr Agathon." The nurse said in a low, melodic voice, holding out the white bundle still, and Helo felt a wild joy bubble up inside. The despair vanished, shoved aside entirely as he processed what the nurse meant. He shot to his feet and crossed the hallway with quick, tense steps, and looked down at the bundle the nurse was still proffering to him.

"It's…it's…" He stared at the baby dumbfounded, mind blank. The nurse smiled and pushed the baby gently at Helo, and he took it with careful hands, cradling the bundle close to his chest and absorbing every little feature.

"He's your son, Mr Agathon." The nurse answered helpfully, a slight smile on her face as Helo flicked a glance up at her.

"My son." Tiny almond-shaped eyes squinting up at Helo's face, whimpers coming from small thin lips, a tiny thatch of dark hair sticking up, round cheeks flushed pink. He was beautiful. Perfect. Helo gazed down at him wonderingly.

"My son." He repeated again in a bemused voice, shifting the baby into one arm and stroking one plump cheek with a finger. The little head swivelled and small mouth opened and shut hungrily as the baby rooted for a nipple. When none was forthcoming he scrunched up his face and let loose with a wail. Helo blinked and jolted, looking helplessly up at the nurse.

As he did, thoughts of Sharon returned, hitting him hard and he paled.

"Sharon?" He asked fearfully, rocking his son in his arms until the baby quieted. The nurse made a sympathetic face, and Helo's heart skipped and raced.

"She's still in surgery. But she's stable, so far, and Dr Cottle is a good surgeon."

"She's not dead?" Helo asked in a soft, blank voice, and the nurse looked startled, shook her head vehemently,

"_No_, no, Mr Agathon – she's not dead. No." She touched his shoulder in a comforting gesture and smiled at him hopefully,

"The odds are good." She said sincerely, and Helo mulled the words over carefully and then nodded.

"Good. That's good, then." And a little of his returned terror receded.

He looked down at his son again; working from a whimper back up to a full-blown wail.

"I think he's hungry." He said inanely. Such a mundane thing to be worried about while Sharon was lying opened up in the theatre, her survival not yet assured. The nurse nodded decisively,

"Of course he is, poor wee thing. Come on, follow me, Mr Agathon, and I'll make you up some sugar-water to feed him in a dropper." She smiled, speaking loudly to be heard over the baby's wails,

"He's a hungry little fellow, and he needs something to keep him going until his mama can give him a proper meal." She looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to follow her, and then seemed to realise Helo's reluctance to leave Sharon. She patted his arm, her cheery matter-of-factness disorienting Helo,

"Come on, Mr Agathon. Your wife is in good hands, and there's nothing you can do here. Your little one, on the other hand, needs his father to take care of him."

Helo let the nurse lead him away. Every step seemed to take an immense effort, and his instincts screamed at him not to go, not to leave her. He wanted to be there, had to be there, just in case… But then the baby wailed even louder, the pitch taking on a frantic timbre, and Helo found himself mercifully distracted by his small son.

# # #

It was good weather this afternoon. Pleasant. The sun was shining in a sky filled with drifts of white cloud, and the breeze was cooler than usual; a balm on the skin. Manya walked along slowly, full from lunch, drowsy from the heat – which while less than usual, was still intense – and not looking forward to the Council meeting. This was an issue that she sincerely wished had never arisen. One of those issues that never did anything but divide and cause tension and rifts, and the Councillors already had enough of those. She sighed, taking off her wide-brimmed sunhat and supplemented the light breeze by fanning herself with it, her high-heels making small clouds of dust in the street as she walked. Manya had never seen Romo as openly emotional as he had been at the last meeting. She had seen him express slight states of annoyance, disinterest, or pain at meetings – but never, ever had she seen such open anger. It was not a good thing. Not a good thing at all.

She understood his anger – she was in favour of revoking Roslyn's abortion law herself – but the degree of emotion he felt, and the expression of it in front of the other Councillors, now _that_ was not good. It exposed his vulnerability in front of the Councillors who would happily try to find a way to exploit it. Not that the they could do anything outright, but what they could get away with was unpleasant enough.

When Sarah, the Cylon Eight had been appointed to the Council, the little alliance composed of Sheridan, Tercel and Jeffries had been highly displeased. They had dismissed Sarah's input during meetings, discreetly mocked her, voted against her in the motions she brought to the table, and, Manya suspected they were behind several incidents of vandalism. Graffiti scrawled across Sarah's house in the night. The incidents had upset the Eight greatly, and over time in response to the harassment, Sarah had begun to contribute less and less at Council meetings.

Manya saw her as a client, and she knew just how much Sheridan, Tercel and Jeffries had impacted Sarah. Not to mention that the end result of the campaign of harassment had destabilised Sarah's position on the Council, leading several of the other Councillors to distrust and dismiss her opinions. It didn't seem to the common observer like Sheridan, Tercel and Jeffries had done much, but their actions had effectively neutralised Sarah as a force of power on the Council. And they had done it in such a way that there was no option for recourse, no way to halt their campaign of harassment without looking reactionary. The injustice of it was a thorn in Manya's side.

Romo would not be so easily affected by such harassment, but still… Manya did not want to see Romo having to deal with trumped up accusations of his objectivity being compromised, of bias – the sorts of things that Tercel, Sheridan and Jeffries would put forward if they thought such tactics had a chance of hurting his image in the eyes of the non-allied Councillors, and thus weakening his political position.

She sighed, setting her hat back on her head and turned left down a narrow dirt street. Manya did not understand or like politics. She wished that she had never let Romo talk her into taking a position on the Council. Half the time she felt useless and ignorant; her only purpose to assure Romo a vote. Which it was, really.

Gods. Romo was a manipulative bastard. Manya was all too aware that he had her wound around his little finger. She would get irritated, argue with him, protest…and he would disarm her, finagle her into accepting the situation, whatever it might be. Sometimes she hated that about him, but most of the time she didn't have it in her to hate him. Her other, more _positive_ feelings were too strong. Godsdamn him and his innate charm. Manya smiled to herself ruefully. If only he could apply his charm to Sheridan, Tercel and Jeffries. The mental picture of Romo trying to sweet-talk the three men around to his point of view amused Manya immensely.

The sun had passed behind a cloud, providing a blessed reprieve from its heat as Manya continued toward Romo's home, smiling at an elderly man sitting in the shade of makeshift awning in front of his house. Then Manya paused on the side of the road, cocking her head to the side. She glanced down a narrow, shaded alley between two buildings. She thought she had heard something. Manya narrowed her eyes and squinted into the shade, taking a step forward.

"Hello?" She called, and heard the sound again. A low whimper that crawled up her spine eerily. Mana licked her lips and took another step forward, feeling oddly nervous.

"Hello? Is anybody th–" She gasped as she saw a small shape, and stepped into the shade between the two buildings, suddenly worried, and as her eyes adjusted she saw what the shape was.

"_Jake_." Manya murmured, crouching down and holding out a hand. He looked up at her through bleary eyes and whined, seeming to recognise her. She bit her lip, holding out her hand and coaxing him closer with encouragements and gestures. He was balanced on three legs, the front left bent so his paw dangled a few inches off the ground, and his chest fur was matted and wet with what looked like blood. Manya winced as Jake stumbled a little closer, and then his legs seemed to give out and he crumpled to the ground with a weak yelp.

"Oh gods, Jake. What happened, boy?" She shuffled to his side on her knees, tentatively reaching out and stroking the silky fur of his head. His ear twitched in reaction, and one dull eye rolled to fix on her, but he made no other response.

"You're all right boy. It's okay." Manya soothed as she carefully – not wanting to risk a nip if she hurt him – parted the sticky fur on the left side of his chest. Jake whimpered, but was still.

"Oh gods, Jake." Manya's heart sank as her fingers pushed his long fur aside to uncover a ragged wound in the dog's chest, like a spear had… The natives, it must have been the godsdamned natives, she realised. Manya swore, feeling shaky as she eyed Romo's dog. She had no idea how Jake had managed to get back to Landfall from wherever he had been attacked with that awful hole in him. He must have dragged himself back here… Tears sprang to Manya's eyes and she stood, hovering over Jake and vacillating over what to do. She bent and tried to pick him up and he was too weak to even complain at the pain it must have caused.

"_Frak_." She swore as she tried and failed to lift him up.

"It's okay, Jake. I'm coming back." She told the dog stupidly, and with a pat to his flank, hurried out onto the street. She needed someone to carry Jake to the hospital. They didn't have a vet in Landfall – or at least, they did, but she was working as a nurse cum doctor, so the hospital was the best place for the dog. Manya glanced around desperately, and as luck would have it, a couple of patrol officers were passing through the intersection to her left. Manya kicked off her stupid restrictive high-heels and holding her hat on her head so it wouldn't fly off, ran barefooted down to the two LPOs, yelling,

"Wait! Wait! Please, stop!"

They stopped and spotted her, no doubt looking ridiculous, she thought, running madly down the street in her nicest dress, barefoot and hat crumpled askew. She skidded to a halt in a puff of dust,

"The – the President's dog. I found him, injured, just up there," She pointed,

"He needs to go to the hospital, and I can't carry him, he's too heavy."

Part of Manya's mind wondered if they thought she was stupid, so upset over a dog, but one she recognised, Salty, just asked,

"Jake?"

Manya nodded, breathless from her short sprint.

"Okay. Dixon, you keep on patrolling – I'll take care of this." Salty told the other LPO, and then turned calm eyes on Manya,

"Where is he?"

Manya led Salty to where she had found Jake, and he was still slumped in the dirt there, although marks in the ground made it seem like he had been trying to drag himself further. Trying to make it back to Romo. Oh gods, Romo. If Jake died, he would be devastated.

"Gods, he's in a bad way isn't he?" Salty asked rhetorically as he very gently scooped Jake up, cradling the dog in his arms. Manya swallowed and nodded, staring at Jake, his head lolling on Salty's tattooed arm, fur all matted and sticky with blood.

"I'll get him to the hospital, Ms Yelizarov, don't worry 'bout that. Maybe you ought to tell the President…"

"Yes. Yes, of course. Thank you." Manya smiled tightly at Salty as he hurried off with his burden, leaving her alone in the shade of the alley.

She let out a shaky breath and sagged against a wall, shutting her eyes and calming her racing heart. Her hat fell off and she scooped it up and leant her head back against the cool wall as she tried to compose herself. After a moment Manya breathed deeply and straightened, smoothed her hands over her dress. Her fingers left faint smears of blood from touching Jake's fur and she swore quietly. It was such a shallow thing to be upset about, but it was her one good dress, and now it was probably ruined. Blood wouldn't come out no matter how much you scrubbed.

She suddenly felt exhausted. She didn't want to have to tell Romo that Jake was hurt, probably dying. How could a dog survive with a wound that size? Gods. She wasn't a doctor or a vet, but Manya imagined the likelihood of Jake recovering was slim. She snagged her shoes up, not bothering to put them back on, and the dirt was hot beneath her bare feet as she made herself plod down the road to Romo's, dreading every step that took her closer. How in the world was she going to tell him?

She knocked on the door with a vague smile for the LPO that stood guard next to it, the guard's eyes curious on her dishevelled outfit. Romo opened the door, dark glasses hiding his eyes, but his mouth smiled.

"Manya. How nice." He smirked playfully, but the expression faded as Manya made no response, clutching her shoes in front of her and gnawing on her lip, trying to find words.

"Is there a problem?" Romo asked her quietly, flicking a glance at the guard and then gesturing for her to go inside. She slipped past him and took a deep breath as she waited for Romo to shut the door and face her.

"I found Jake." She began simply, and her tone told him there was something wrong. Romo's eyes swept over her and she knew he'd seen the small bloodstains on the skirt of her dress when his face paled slightly and his lips tightened. He was so observant – never missed a thing, Manya thought to herself inanely.

"Is he hurt?" Romo asked slowly, and she nodded, unable to speak. He froze for a second, and then sighed, looking down and then out the window, expression unreadable. Manya was silent, not knowing what to say.

"Bloody dog." Romo said a moment later,

"He disappeared this morning, and…" He shook himself and focused on Manya.

"What happened? Is he badly injured?"

Manya hugged herself tightly, the heels of her shoes digging into her side, fingers wrapped tightly around the leather straps and the straw brim of her hat.

"I don't know what happened, exactly, but from the nature of the…wound, I think it must have been the proto-humans. The injury was deliberately inflicted, and I don't think anyone in Landfall would purposely hurt Jake."

"Nature of the wound?" Romo's face was rigidly controlled and Manya's heart ached for him. She wanted to reach out to him, but she knew he would reject the gesture.

"It looks like he was hit by a spear, or something like it." Manya said reluctantly, looking down at her bare toes on the carpet,

"In – in his chest. It looked…it looks like he's lost a lot of blood." She finally forced her eyes back up to Romo's face, eyes still hidden behind his damned glasses; making it harder to read what little emotion he might show.

"Where is he?"

"I – I got Salty Cheung to take him to the hospital. I didn't know where else…" She trailed off, still hugging herself defensively,

"You should – we should go there. Now. I don't know how long…"

Romo flattened his lips and looked down at the floor, back up at Manya's face, head held at a slight angle as he regarded her.

"You don't think he's going to make it?"

The words were plainly said in a calm, blank voice, but Manya could feel the wealth of fear behind Romo's front.

"It was a very bad wound." She told Romo bluntly and he nodded.

"Right. Well, I better go to the hospital then." He glanced at his watch, such a blasé façade,

"I have time before the meeting." He moved to the door and pulled it open,

"Are you coming?"

Manya stirred herself to life, arms dropping to her sides and nodded quickly. She hadn't thought Romo would want anyone there if… She didn't think he would want her to be there in case his brittle façade cracked under the pressure. Perhaps he was opening up to her more than Manya had thought. Romo raised an eyebrow at her, impatient, and she refocused on the present.

"Yes, of course."

Romo walked quickly; so fast and hurried were his steps that Manya had to half-jog every few paces to keep up. He didn't say anything, but then Manya didn't expect him to. His mind was on Jake. Romo loved that dog – no, more than that. He _needed_ him. Despite all Romo's casual flippancy towards the animal in the presence of others, and his protestations that Jake was mostly more of a nuisance than a joy, Manya knew he loved the dog. He had been a gift from Lee, or so Romo had told her – a replacement for the family cat that had survived the Fall of the Colonies, only to be killed by some stupid brutes, no doubt for no reason other than the fun of it.

Manya's breath was coming short as they entered the hospital and were greeted and directed briskly by a harried receptionist through to Room 12. They passed Karl Agathon in the hall, who had only eyes on the baby in his arms, and Manya wanted to pause and congratulate him. Now was _not_ a good time though. She smiled at the man who didn't notice, and hurried after Romo. Room 12 was empty when Romo pushed the door open, and he stepped back, bumping into Manya. Manya put her hand on his arm, trying to reassure him,

"Maybe he's in surgery?"

"He's a dog. Do you think they'd operate on a dog?" Romo's voice was bitter and he shrugged Manya's hand off roughly; both clear signs of how upset he was. Manya bit her lip.

"Maybe. He is important. He's the only male we have… Anyway, we'll wait here until we have to leave for the meeting. He's probably with the vet."

Romo didn't answer, just sat down on a chair and pulled a pen out of his pocket, fiddling with it for lack of anything else to do. He didn't seem amenable to conversation. The room was hot and stuffy, and Manya sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose; another headache coming on. Gods, she wished she wasn't so prone to them.

She wandered over to the one small window and pushed it open with a creak, letting the breeze wash over her face. She leaned on the windowsill, staring out at the view of a few scattered houses and the plains beyond. She could _feel_ the tension emanating across the room from Romo. It was all too tangible, and made her head throb even worse.

Romo had lost so much when the Fall had happened. Everything, really. Except for that cat, Lance. And then when he'd lost him too…well, Manya didn't know the whole story of what had happened, but Romo had intimated vaguely when pressed that he had pretended for some time that Lance had still been alive, which was never a good sign. If Jake died, Manya wasn't sure if Romo could cope, or if he would react like he did after … was killed. Manya's thoughts raced, half clinical, half personal. She worried.

Romo was an excellent President – the best choice in her admittedly rather biased opinion. If Jake died and Romo had the same reaction he'd had when his cat Lance had been killed, Manya rather suspected the Councillors would – fairly – hold a vote of no confidence in him. And _then_ the Council would dissolve into ineffective anarchy as they each competed for the Presidency, leaving Landfall leaderless. And of course, there was the fact that she personally did not want to see him sink into depression and despair. Manya glanced over her shoulder at Romo, continuously clicking the pen and radiating nervous energy.

She would just have to hope he had grown since Lance was killed, because she didn't think there was much chance of Jake surviving. Maybe having her this time would make things easier for Romo, but she was unsure – she didn't want to assume she meant more to him than she actually did.

Manya bit her lip, worrying silently.

# # #

Starbuck looked up from her drink as someone sat down at the bar several stools down from her. She grinned at the new arrival, feeling happy in general; Joe agreeing to let her back into the bar – if she promised to behave herself – was one of those things that cheered her up immensely. With drink in hand, all problems had a way of disappearing. Or at least, temporarily not mattering before reappearing the next day with the added bonus of a hangover…but still. Starbuck was in a _good_ godsdamned mood.

She lifted her drink in greeting,

"Hotdog. How's life treating ya?"

He lifted his head and she flinched, suddenly regretting her cheerfulness as she took in the dull hollows of his eyes, the strain carved into his features. He didn't say anything, just flagged down Joe and with a few terse words ordered a drink. Starbuck chewed on the inside of her cheek for a moment, and when Hotdog showed no sign of answering her, she asked nervously,

"You okay, man?"

Hotdog glanced over at her and she met his eyes and held them, waiting for him to answer her. It wasn't easy, keeping his gaze, but she'd be damned if she looked away. He looked like hell. Hotdog finally opened his mouth, and then Joe slid his drink across the counter with a nod, flinging a cloth over his shoulder and heading to the other end of the bar where another customer waved for a refill. Hotdog sighed, sipped at his drink, looked back over at Starbuck, and said flatly,

"Nicky's dying."

Starbuck blinked.

"Frak. That's…_frak_." Starbuck was lost for words – wished she'd never said a godsdamned word to him. Nicky dying? Gods, that was some awful, heavy shit. She swallowed hard, trying to think of what you were supposed to say to something like this, and came up with a blank. A 'sorry' sounded too all-purpose, too flippant–

"I've only had him for just over nine months. Nine months." Hotdog shook his head and stared down into his drink. Starbuck sat silently, his words sinking into her skull and draining away all her happiness. How much worse must he feel, if she felt this awful and Nicky wasn't even her kid. She didn't even really _like_ kids.

"Just nine short godsdamned months and I'd frakking _die_ for him if I could." His mouth tensed up with anger, hand clenching around his drink and muscles in his jaw twitching,

"And I _can't_. I _can't_ godsdamnit." He spat the words out and drained his glass, slamming it down on the bar and waving at Joe for more. Starbuck licked her lips, thinking, and when Joe came over she intercepted him with a word,

"Joe."

"Yeah?" He looked at her suspiciously.

"A bottle of your finest for Hotdog, here – on my tab."

"Sure thing, Starbuck." Joe agreed, but gave her a look that said, 'make sure you frakking behave'.

She ran her finger around the rim of her glass, sighed, and said,

"I'm no good at giving out fancy words of advice. I dunno how to say something that'll make you feel better 'bout the godsdamned shit hand you've been dealt. But I _can_ get ya good and frakked, listen if ya wanna talk, and make sure you get home safe after you've drunk yourself under the table."

Hotdog huffed a short laugh, lopsided smile making a brief appearance on his face. There was genuine gratitude on his features as he met Starbuck's eyes and nodded slowly.

"Thanks, Starbuck."

"Welcome." She shrugged off his thanks, uncomfortable with the emotion behind it, and slugged back half her drink. Joe shoved the bottle of booze on the bar between Starbuck and Hotdog, and she shifted down the bar a ways so she was next to him. Topped up her glass, poured him a measure, and then lifted her glass,

"To forgetting, for a while." She said flippantly and downed her drink. Hotdog grimaced, leant over the bar a bit, elbows resting on the smooth wood and mumbled,

"Don't know if I want to forget, or remember, right now."

Starbuck winced in sympathy and fiddled with her glass. Like she had said, she was worse than useless when it came to being comforting and saying the right thing. She racked her brain.

"Forget. There's always time for remembering – too godsdamned much if you ask me – but the opportunities for forgettin' are few and far between. Gotta take advantage of those times when they present themselves."

It wasn't much in the way of comforting, but Hotdog just nodded like he appreciated the words. Drank. Starbuck mentally waved goodbye to her relaxing afternoon, and slouched over her drink, playing with the glass. She knew she better pace herself – the way Hotdog was gonna be drinking Starbuck reckoned he'd be legless in a few hours. She had to be sober enough to drag his ass home. Frak it. Hearing Hotdog's tragic godsdamned situation had left Starbuck feeling in need of getting good and drunk herself. And she couldn't.

_Frak_.

# # #

_Author's Note:_ And that's Part Four! It was, I thought, slightly more cheerful than the last few chapters, not that that's saying much. Still pretty depressing, I guess. But torment and suffering is good for the characters – it gives them, um, character. Heh.

Please, leave me your feedback in one of those…what are they called? Oh, that's right – _reviews_. I looove getting those :D

_Episode Five: The Domino Effect_ is all fully plotted and as of this posting I have written 6,000+ wds, ie. an almost complete chapter. My chapters are getting so much longer…

I have also realised it will most definitely need to be _M-rated_.

It focuses on Starbuck, Lee, and Romo, and will contain adult themes including the topic of suicide, relatively graphic sexual content, and ditto violence. It will be a delicious angst-fest, and now that I'm finally getting over my stupid writer's block, is/will be a hell of a lot of angsty, dirty, and vicious fun to write.


	5. Part Five - The Trials and Tribulations

_Author's Note: Sorry_ that it's taken so long to get this chapter up! I have been enormously distracted from my writing by a combination of real life craziness and spending too much time replaying the Mass Effect trilogy – which has resulted in reading way too many femShep/Garrus fics. Oh Garrus, you and your sub-harmonics *swoon*

Anyway, here is the next chapter, at long last!

_Enjoy!_

# # #

_Part Five – The Trials and Tribulations_

The first thing Athena was aware of was a searing pain. Her hands clenched involuntarily into fists and she gasped, tears springing to her eyes and shallow breaths fast and jagged in her chest. She bit her lip and moaned and the sound of movement reached her ears,

"Whe's'Ka?" She tried to ask for Karl and it came out in a slurred jumble. Athena gasped again, nails driving into her palms. Looked up as a hand smoothed over her forehead, and saw a blurry and indistinct Karl hovering over her.

"Ka…th' baby…" She mumbled, her hand flailing at Karl's arm helplessly and falling back to the bed. Athena's head spun woozily, and the godsdamned pain kept eating into her like fire. She couldn't think properly through it; it consumed her whole universe, and panic fluttered at the edges of her mind. Karl took her hand, patting it gently as though he thought it would help.

"He's fine. The baby's fine, Sharon."

Athena's vision was begin to clear, the fuzziness fading, and she could see the worry and relief on Karl's face as he stared down at her, his emotions etched into his features with dark shadows and worried lines. She swallowed and hissed with the pain as she tried to shift on the bed – but for now, at least, the pain wasn't the most important thing.

"He? He's okay?" Her heartbeat raced with a wild relief and happiness, and she managed a pitifully weak smile.

"Yeah, a little boy, and he's fine, Sharon. It was touch and go there for a while for both of you. But you're both going to be okay now." Karl told her, and she could see he believed the words; it was the truth. Their baby was okay. Tears slipped from beneath her lids and traced slowly down her cheeks – relief and happiness and pain all tangled.

"Can, can I see him?"

"Of course." Karl answered, smile crossing his lips. He laid her hand gently back down on the bed and hurried out of Athena's line of sight. She could hear the sounds of blankets and Karl's soft murmurs, the gurgling whimpers of a baby. Her baby. She craned her neck, trying to lift her head off the pillows but agony flashed through her and she slumped back with a groan. And then Karl came into view. He grinned at Athena, expression ecstatic, and brought the squirming little creature half-wrapped in a blanket over to Athena. She bit her lip as Karl lowered the baby so his tiny head was on a level with hers, little face right there in front of her.

"He's perfect…" She whispered and lifted one shaky hand, stroking her fingers over the baby's cheek and down to his arm, his little fingers. Athena had never gotten to have the proper experience of having a baby. Hera had…well, things had been different with Hera. And this, this soft warm living newborn – healthy and so big compared to what Hera had been when she was born - was something Athena had no experience with. It was all so new.

"He's perfect." She repeated and then her smile dissolved into a grimace as the pain wore down her tolerance. Karl cuddled the little boy back up in his arms and Athena's hand felt cold at the loss of touch. She wanted to hold him, feed him. But…

"The pain?" Karl asked and Athena nodded shortly, unable to speak.

"I told the nurses when you first started to wake up. They should be here with some painkillers shortly, and then once they kick in, you can have a hold." He hooked a chair over to the bedside with one foot and sat down with the baby cradled easily in one arm, already seeming so comfortable handling a newborn. The baby was so little in his arms.

"Can you see him?" He asked and when she shook her head, feeling teary again, Karl shifted the chair out from the bed a little and sat back down, holding the baby so his face was toward Athena.

"Now?" He asked, and Athena nodded gratefully, eyes drinking in her son's face. He was alive, and okay, and safe with her and Karl. She blinked away tears, managing a trembling smile as she looked at her son in Karl's arms; if it weren't for the persistent frakking agony, everything would be perfect.

# # #

"Taft." Tigh nodded at the representative of Wideskies as he slid onto the bar stool next to Tigh with a brief smile for the older man. He was a decent enough fellow, Taft; unlike most of the others on the Council, Taft had no interest in politics, he was just the best qualified of Wideskies' people to represent them.

"Tigh. Good to see you." Gerard Taft answered warmly, nodding at the half-full glass in Tigh's hand.

"Having a bolstering drink before the meeting, huh?' Taft asked with a grin, long carroty hair falling over his eyes as he confided,

"I tend to do that myself. Makes the meeting go a bit faster, y'know?"

Tigh grunted, taking a restrained sip of his drink.

"I've been in here half the day, and there's only so much time a man can happily spend in a bar if he can't get properly frakked. For once, I'm looking forward to the godsdamned meeting."

Taft raised an eyebrow at Tigh, flagging down Joe and ordering a drink. A brief and flurried back and forth ensued between Taft and Joe over the man's bar tab, and Tigh listened with idle curiosity. The dispute was settled amicably, and Taft sat back on the stool and leaned over toward Tigh.

"So, what's got ya in the bar all day? Missus in a snit with ya?"

Tigh grunted again.

"I wish. Ellen's easier to deal with than the little hellion that's taken over my home. Can't get a moment of peace and quiet, and so here I am."

"Hellion?"

"The Agathons' kid. Hera. Sharon Agathon's in labour with their second, and we got the girl dumped on us yesterday. Strangest frakking child I've ever met. Been pestering me every damned chance she gets"

"Not much for kids, then?" Taft accepted his drink from Joe with a curt nod, eying the sickly-brown contents with suspicion.

"Hell no. Can't stand the little tykes. Not so bad when they're babies I guess – they just kind of lie there, immobile. Can't get up to mischief. Can't get into your ammo, can't ask you twenty damned questions a minute, can't try and colour in your book with charcoal," Tigh groused, staring into the depths of his drink,

"Charcoal! It's not even a frakking colour! And the little brat decides to thieve my book and colour all the damned pages black!" Tigh looked over at Gerard for the expected commiserations. The man was filled with amusement at Tigh's dire situation,

"Sounds like you've got your hands full." He commented with a grin, and Tigh glowered at the thought of Hera, nodding vigorously.

"And _that's_ the frakking truth."

Taft finally dared to try his oddly coloured drink, and the suspicion turned to pleasant surprise at the taste.

"You know, it's not half bad, this brew of Joe's."

"Gets you frakked, and mostly doesn't taste of piss. Yeah, it does the job." Tigh agreed, and the two men sat in companionable silence, sipping at their respective drinks and staring at the blank wall behind the bar.

"Hopefully the child'll be gone by the time we're done with this godsdamned meeting, if she'd not already. It's been a full day and a half; how much longer can having a baby take?"

"Oh, my friend. My friend." Taft shook his head, ruddy face overflowing with sympathy.

"I remember it took my mother three days to have my little sister, and then I spent the next two days after that at my Nan and Pop's, because no new mother wants to be dealing with a preschooler when she's just spent three days having the new one." Taft's expression was mockingly sombre – save his twinkling eyes – as he clapped Tigh on the shoulder heartily,

"Best not expect too much, Tigh. You may only be disappointed. Little, uh, Hera, might be with you for a couple more days yet if you're unlucky."

Tigh eyed the man with mild irritation; all too aware of the amusement Taft was deriving from Tigh's predicament.

"Aren't you just the bearer of good news. Bet you think this is real hilarious."

"Come on Tigh, its just a few days, man. Not that bad. You might like the tyke if you gave her a chance." Taft tried to jolly him along, but Tigh was having none of it, stubborn in his determination to dislike child minding.

"And maybe the natives'll decide they want to live in peace and harmony with us." Tigh replied and Taft grinned and tried to cheer the older man up.

"Well, I guess you just have to hope Hera's mother is quick at having babies. Who knows, Tigh, maybe Hera _will_ be gone by the time you get back. That's as likely as anything."

"Mm." Was all Tigh had to say on the matter, glaring at the bar wall with his expression still mulishly cantankerous. Taft shrugged lightly and dropped the topic, picking up another.

"So, Tigh…you figured out what side you're going to vote for yet?"

# # #

Romo tried to focus on the task ahead of him, and not be distracted by the image of Jake that crowded his mind. Looking so small and vulnerable lying on a hospital bed with his chest shaved of fur and stitches pulling the ragged wound neatly back together, groggy from the ether. The vet who had operated on him didn't know if he would make it, but her demeanour had indicated his prognosis was not good. Bloody frakking dog. Running off and getting hurt like that. _Godsdamnit_. He was all Romo had. His only claim to family was a bloody dog, and now even that one bastion between Romo and utter loneliness was in jeopardy.

Romo cast a serious gaze over the Councillors, all sitting quietly around the table. Everyone was present, the meeting had begun, and the only thing on the agenda was Roslyn's Criminalisation of Abortion Law and the motion to reverse it.

"Yesterday I met a young woman – a girl, really – by the name of Liara Addison." Romo began solemnly, and all thought of Jake flew from his mind, replaced by the image of Liara, pale and round faced, polite despite her situation.

"She is fourteen years old; fourteen. She was in a relationship with a young man from Gemenon two years older than herself, and despite their caution, she fell pregnant." Romo sighed, still and calm, and the room was quiet enough to hear a pin drop.

"It would be hard enough for a fourteen year old back on the Colonies, with all the support she could ever need, to carry, give birth to, and raise a child. But here, the prospect is far more than just an unpleasant inconvenience – it is a catastrophe. _Any_ pregnancy carries an element of risk, let alone one here in this primitive environment, with limited medical care available – and the danger only heightened so when the mother is in her early teens, body and mind not yet finished developing."

Dour looks contrasted with ones of agreement and sympathy, as the Councillors processed Romo's words and weighted them against their own opinions.

"To carry this pregnancy to term would constitute a certain danger to Liara's physical health, and to be mother to a baby she does not want would irreparably alter her life for the worse, and put an immense strain on her mentally and emotionally." Romo took off his dark glasses and dropped them gently on the table with a soft clatter.

"And she is not the only one. There are many women out there who have fallen pregnant and not wanted to carry the pregnancy to term. Each of you has a document in front of you that lists all the women I have been able to find official record of who have either committed suicide or attempted it. Some of them apparently hoped that the method would cause them to lose the pregnancy without long-term harm to themselves, and others were just trying to die." Romo had spent long hours since yesterday's meeting trying to scrounge up the statistics necessary – the paperwork at the hospital was spotty at best, but he had found enough cases to hopefully influence the Councillors. He waited a long moment while the Councillors picked up the piece of paper in front of each of them and skimmed through it; a long list of names, and the death, infertility or illness that their attempts had resulted in. How could the Council not vote to revoke the law when confronted with evidence such as this?

"This is only a very tiny percentage of the population," Kari Eldon spoke up in her severe manner, faded eyes sharp on Romo's face. He felt naked without his glasses on, but met her gaze steadily.

"From the point of view that reproduction is essential to propagate the species, I do not know if a handful of deaths is reason enough to revoke the law. We need to be having children if we want our species to survive."

Romo licked his lips, hands trembling slightly as anger built up inside him.

"No deaths are acceptable in my opinion, Ms Eldon."

"Then you are a fool. An idealistic fool."

"Ms Eldon, please refrain from using personal insults." Romo rejoined automatically as his mind raced. A fool, an idealistic fool. Is that what Romo was? He would never have used the word idealistic to describe himself. It would be the very last thing he thought he was.

"Please explain your logic, Ms Eldon."

The other Councillors watched the exchange with silent interest, waiting to see who would come out on top. Eldon inclined her head with a thin close-lipped smile.  
"Of course, Mr President. In times such as these – desperate, uncertain times – we sometimes have to compromise our ideals in order to survive. In this environment, childbirth and childhood are both things that we can no longer assure survival of. More people are going to die, and our numbers are already far too few. In order to combat the mortality rate, people need to have more children. And because they perhaps, would rather not bring children into this environment, we must make them."

From a purely cold, rational perspective, Eldon made sense. But it wasn't a sense that Romo wanted any part of. His government would not become a dictatorship, a controlling force over the people to the point where they lost their bodily autonomy. That was wrong, and believing it was wrong wasn't idealism – it was decency. Ethics.

"As I said yesterday, I believe it is better for our species to dwindle and die than for us to create slaves out of our own citizens." Romo nearly spat the words out; jaw clenched and hands flat on the table as he leaned forward over it, trying to keep control of his surprisingly strong emotions on the subject. He was letting the situation get under his skin, affect him personally. He couldn't afford that. He had to stay calm and in control.

"I agree." Sarah said quietly, and everyone turned to look at her, the Eight shrinking under the weight of the other Councillors eyes.

"I lived my life as one of many; following orders, no sense of individuality, doing what was asked of me by the collective, regardless of whether I personally agreed or not. We were all slaves, slaves to the collective opinion. We had to agree. We had to be in accord, whether or not the spark of individuality within us was in agreement with the group decision. We did what was best for the group as a whole." She began to speak more clearly, strength building in her voice and back straightening as she continued,

"And then those of use who disagreed with the course the group was on, left. Left our family. We refused to follow along and agree mindlessly any longer. To accept the collateral damage, to go down a path that we no longer believed in. We left them, and it was here, with you," She looked around at the humans seated at the long table,

"That we truly found our individuality." Sarah licked her lips, almond eyes narrowing,

"I have a _name_ now, a name that is purely my own and no one else's. I have beliefs, opinions, memories that are my own. I can decide for myself what I want to do, without anyone else pressuring me. And if I make the wrong decision, if I make a mistake, it is _my_ mistake." She paused, looked down at the paper in front of her, the list of names, and then looked up at the humans around her.

"You can't take away people's individual freedoms. You can't take away the choice as to what they want to do with their own bodies, their lives. Because when you do that, you become us. What _we_ were. Slaves to the group. Every decision made based on how it would benefit the group, with no thought for the individual people within the group." She cleared her throat, and Romo watched her, entranced with her speech, as Sarah began to read from the piece of paper on the table,

"Michelle Davies. June Simmons. Darla Smyth. Persephone Black. Anne Riesling… The list of the dead goes on. These women may have been only a miniscule percentage of humanity, but that's _not_ all they were. They were _people_, individuals with lives, and family, and purpose. Hopes, and dreams, and plans for the future. And because the law says they had to bear children whether they wished to or not, they are dead. Their families and friends have lost them. Their hopes and dreams died with them."

The atmosphere within the Council room had changed. Instead of disagreement being on an even keel with agreement, Romo saw that overwhelmingly, the Councillors appeared swayed by Sarah. Gods, the Cylon was a bloody brilliant orator. Romo himself was absorbed by what she was saying, and at the other end of the table he saw Manya discreetly wipe her eyes.

"There is a saying – _for the greater good_. It sounds perfectly well in theory, but in practice, it only brings about things like this list." Sarah tapped it with a slim finger,

"People who would still be alive, were it not for this law. How is this good? What outwardly seems to benefit the group can destroy the individual. I know this firsthand. That is why I will be voting to repeal the law today."

She fell silent and nodded her head, to indicate she was done. Romo bestowed a surprised and impressed smile upon her, and she coloured slightly, staring down at her hands.

"Bravo, Sarah." Romo commented mildly, and he saw nods around the table. Ms Eldon had a thoughtful expression on her lined face, and Romo stepped in quickly,

"Sarah brought up an excellent reason as to why the law should be revoked – the fact that criminalizing abortion does not stop it from happening, or being attempted. The statistics on the Colonies indicated that clearly, and was one of the major reasons why abortion was fully available to women for centuries before the Fall. Because desperate people will turn to desperate measures. As this list shows, women who are denied access to abortion will often try dangerous, life-threatening methods to end the unwanted pregnancy. The current abortion law _will not_ result in what you want, Ms Eldon – or not to any significant extent, at any rate. But it _will_ result in many dead or injured women." He drove the logic of his point home – the facts were what Eldon paid notice to, and those were facts she couldn't deny. He was right, and she had to know it. Her face grew ever more thoughtful as she mulled over Romo's words, and he felt a flash of hope.

"It's not all about the women, Mr President. What about the babies? They have a right to life, do they not?" Tercel.

"I don't know that they do, Mr Tercel. At any rate, I am more concerned about the death of a living, breathing, independent woman with a family and friends and life, than a foetus not yet developed enough to survive independent of the mother." Romo shot back, perhaps unwisely, as Tercel's face clouded over and his mouth curled into disgusted disapproval.

"So you're fine with killing babies?"

"I don't believe they are babies _per se _until they are born, Mr Tercel. But as a matter of fact, I would be, if it were necessary. The natives have been observed in the past in the process of abandoning their newborns – leaving them to die of exposure. A horrifying sight, unimaginable to us – we are more _civilised_." Romo said the last word dryly, and paused before continuing,

"And yet, what the natives do is perfectly logical, and in fact, a necessity. When a tribe is already barely surviving, the child's mother half-starving, with other, older children to feed…letting the newborn live tips the scales towards death for the mother and her other children. And coupled with the fact that the mortality rate for proto-human infants seems quite high, and few survive into their second year…it makes sense to conserve resources for those most likely to survive. So yes, in theory, at least, I can understand the logic behind killing babies." Romo stared hard into Tercel's eyes; deeply set beneath his bushy white brows, accusing on Romo.

"But a newborn is not an eight week gestated foetus. So please, don't compare the two to try and stir up an emotional response that is not based in fact."

Tercel choked on Romo's sharp rebuke, wrinkled face twisting into impotent anger, papery-skinned hands curling into thin, angry fists.

"Your fancy words and little justifications don't change the fact that those _foetuses _would shortly become viable babies if not killed, Mr President."

"But they aren't. They aren't babies." Romo pointed out and Tercel snorted through his nose,

"You aren't going to convince me, Mr President. I believe that destroying a life is _wrong_, and I will not vote to repeal the law."

"Very well, Mr Tercel. That is of course, your decision." Romo answered, and looked about the room. Dianna Eyrie leaned forward, and began to speak – in favour of repealing the law. Romo smiled to himself, and listened, nodding along. His hopes were rising, and he mentally crossed his fingers – at this point, it looked like the vote might go his way, unless of course Tercel or one of the others who wanted to keep the law in place made an excellent argument and swayed others. Romo sat quietly; his turn for speaking was over. He didn't want to dominate the floor too much – that had a tendency to irritate people. So for now, he just sat quietly, a bundle of vibrating tension, and waited for the vigorous debate between the Councillors to come to a natural end.

Finally, Gerard Taft fell silent, and no one else responded to his words, no one else was left to put forward their opinion. Romo rapped his gavel on the table, and stood.

"I move that we put the motion to a vote."

"Second!" Called Manya casually, smiling lightly at Romo. He nodded, smiled back.

"Very well. All in favour of _repealing_ the Criminalisation of Abortion law, and reinstating the previous laws pertaining to abortion, raise your hand and say _aye_." There was a ragged chorus of ayes, and hands lifted in the air, and Romo quickly counted them up. He shut his eyes for a brief second and let out a sigh.

"The ayes have it." He confirmed what the others had already likely counted up for themselves, and relief hit him like a speeding train. He sank down into his seat and breathed deeply. It was done. Liara Addison could get her abortion. Thank the bloody gods.

Tercel and Sheridan, had, in the end, been the only two who had not voted aye. All the others had voted to revoke the law, even though some ayes were more reluctant than others, and some hands were tentative in the air instead of enthusiastic. At the end of the day, Romo thought it was Sarah's argument that had secured the argument. He had never expected such an eloquent, evocative speech from _her_ – the shy and reticent Eight.

"This session of the Council is concluded. Thank you all for your time." Romo knocked his gavel and the Councillors rose, mostly eager to be gone and back to their usual activities. Romo plucked at Sarah's sleeve in the crush to get out of the building, catching her attention, and once they were outside she followed him off to one side eying him curiously.

"I _knew_ you were a good choice for the Council." Romo congratulated Sarah. She shrugged off his compliment, and glued her eyes to the ground.

"That speech was incredible, Sarah. You were magnificent."

"Thank you, Mr President. But I just said what I felt."

"In an amazingly eloquent manner, Sarah. You were exceedingly convincing, and I do believe it was you who secured the votes of the undecided Councillors." Romo corrected her, and she looked up from the dirt. He smiled at her.

"That was a thing to behold."

"Thank you, sir." Sarah smiled to herself,

"It was surprisingly…fun."

"Good. Good. I expect to see you voicing your opinion more in the meetings, now I know you can do so with such persuasive grace. You could be a force of power on the Council, Sarah." Romo tried to encourage the Cylon, but Sarah was obviously still highly reluctant about being more vocal. Romo knew her reluctance was because of Tercel, Jeffries and Sheridan and their old campaign of harassment, and a tic of anger surfaced. He wished he'd been able to nip that in the bud, but at the time they had been too godsdamned careful not to get caught. Slipped through Romo's fingers. But he wouldn't let that happen again.

"If they try anything, I'll make sure there are penalties. I won't allow one of my Councillors to be intimidated by the others."

"If you catch them, Mr President."

"You can't let them silence you, Sarah."

"With all due respect, Mr President, I can do whatever the hell I like. Isn't that what this very vote was just about?" Sarah said with sudden vehemency, and then her eyes dropped back to the ground and she hurried off, without so much as a farewell. Romo swore.

"Troubled, Mr President?" Manya's soft voice asked, and he turned around. She stood there with concern in her eyes, which themselves were tired and shadowed beneath.

"My happiness never seems to last long." Romo said, referencing his conversation with Sarah, and Manya placed her hand on his for a moment, squeezing quickly before dropping it.

"Do you want to go to the hospital, now? I can come if you like, Romo?" She asked solicitously, and he suddenly remembered, stomach jolting and the last of his happiness from the law being repealed vanished in a blink. His eyes went to the small bloodstains on Manya's skirt, damp and fainter from her attempt to scrub them out while they were at the hospital before the meeting. Gods. Jake. In his attempt to focus on the meeting, Romo had successfully managed to completely forget about Jake. And now he remembered…

"I – I want to talk to Dr Nerys and Miss Addison before I go to see Jake." He stammered slightly, voice low and sounding unsure. He cursed it, and cleared his throat,

"I think I'd like to be by myself, thank you Manya." There. He sounded cool and in control. Manya smiled gently, patted his hand again.

"Of course, Romo. If you need me, though, just send someone to my home. I'll be there for the rest of the day."

Romo nodded wordlessly, and tried to smile at Manya, but the expression wouldn't really come. It seemed to Romo, that nothing good could come to pass, without something equally bad happening. He could never just have pure, unblemished happiness; there always had to be a catch.

# # #

"It passed?" Liara's dreamy voice was brightened slightly with excitement, almost perky as she swung her legs idly over the edge of the bed,

"Does that mean…? I can have an abortion?"

"That would be correct, Miss Addison." Romo managed a smile this time, the girl's relief palpable and infecting him with a shadow of her happiness.

"Oh thank the gods. I was so afraid…" She trailed off, focus turned inward for a moment. Dr Nerys squeezed Liara encouragingly around the waist and stood, leaving the girl sitting on the edge of the bed lost in her thoughts.

"Thank you, Mr President." Nerys held out her hand and Romo shook it smoothly.

"It…it was the right thing to do, Dr Nerys. You don't need to thank me. And of course, it was the Council's decision, not mine alone."

"The law would never have been repealed if you hadn't spoken out." Nerys corrected him and Romo shrugged,

"Maybe so, but that still doesn't make what I did anything special. All I did was bring a motion to the table…argue for the law to be revoked. Anyone could have done the same, Doctor."

"Ah, but they didn't. And the reason I approached you was not because you're the President, but because I didn't believe anyone else would be willing to try and strike off the law." Nerys raised an eyebrow, fixing a sincere look of gratitude on Romo, who shifted uncomfortably beneath her gaze,

"What you – and the Council – achieved today will save women's lives."

"I'm glad." Romo said simply, and took a step back, letting out a breath.

"You want to go see your dog?" Liara piped up and Romo glanced up at her, startled. She stared at him calmly, head tilted slightly to the side. Romo nodded,

"Yes, Miss Addison."

"I sat with him while you weren't here. Kept him company." Liara told him seriously and Romo's eyes widened. He swallowed hard, her unexpected kindness catching him off guard.

"That's…that's… Thank you, Miss Addison. I very much appreciate that."

"Oh, I didn't do it for you." She paused,

"Well, I suppose I did it for you _too_, but mostly I did it for Jake. He's a nice dog. I remember when the fleet was on New Caprica – I used to play with him sometimes."

Romo bit his tongue, holding back the wash of emotion her sad, quietly spoken words were evoking. He had spoken to the vet when he had arrived at the hospital – bumped into her in the hallway – and she had told him gently that Jake wasn't going to survive, bar a miracle. Romo didn't believe in miracles. He didn't want Jake to die. Bloody stupid dog; he half wished Lee Adama had never given it to him. Liara was still staring at him, almost unblinking, and he glanced down at his shoes. It was like the girl could see straight into his head with that unfocused stare of hers, and it was godsdamned disconcerting.

"I hope he'll be okay." Liara offered.

"So do I, Miss Addison." Romo replied gravely, and took another step back toward the door, eager to be gone.

"Good day, Mr President. And thank you again." Nerys' voice was welcome sharpness; brusque, practical and down-to-earth. Romo collected himself, the spell that Miss Addison had woven over him with her compassion and soft words dispelled in an instant. He nodded acknowledgement to Dr Nerys and Liara.

"No trouble at all."

Liara waved limply as Romo left the room, shutting the door behind him. Gods she was unusual, he mused as he walked briskly down the hallway toward Jake's room. A nice, intelligent seeming girl, underneath the vagueness, but she had an air about her, a way of speaking and looking at him that left Romo feeling oddly naked. She stared straight into him, through him. But he liked her.

He pushed the door to Jake's room open. The bed was empty, and a brief panic seized Romo. His eyes darted about the room, and then he saw Jake. Lying on his side on a nest of blankets and pillows in a corner of the room, awake but too weak to even lift his head to greet Romo. Romo shut his eyes and took a deep breath, steeling himself.

"Hi Jake." He greeted the dog, easing himself onto the floor next to Jake's nest, leaning his back against the wall and stretching his legs out in front of him. His stab wounds twinged at him. Jake's eye rolled to look at Romo, and his tail managed the barest wag; a twitch of tail against blanket.

"Good boy." Romo murmured, and stroked a hand over Jake's head and silky ear. Jake snuffled weakly and then lapsed back into stillness, the only sound that of the dog panting, slow and laboured. Romo swallowed and leant his head back against the wall, closed his eyes. Romo didn't want Jake to die – he would be so _lonely_ without him. It sounded so sad and small, put that way. The bare, unadorned truth. But want didn't make fact. And the fact of it was that Jake was most likely going to die tonight, unless…no, there was no unless. Jake was too badly wounded too recover; it was amazing that he had survived this long.

Romo stroked Jake's head again; warm and silky under his hand.

"You've been a tolerable companion, Jake. Good company – most of the time." Romo cleared his throat, voice suddenly scratchy and hoarse. His eyes burnt with tears that he would not shed.

"I'm going to miss you."

Jake whined, and Romo opened his eyes and looked down at him tiredly, taking off his dark glasses and laying them on the floor. Jake's visible eye fixed mournfully on Romo's face and he pushed his head weakly towards Romo's hand, seeking comfort. Romo scratched the dog's neck affectionately, gently stroked his flank.

"I'll stay, boy. I'm not going anywhere."

# # #

_Author's Notes:_ Yay! The Agathons are going to be okay, and the law has been repealed! Boo! Jake is not having his best day ever :(

One more chapter of this episode, and then we're on to Episode Five, of which I've only written a chapter and a half so far, because I am terrible and lazy and busy. The first chapter is _epically_ long for me, though, and it seems like most of the chapters will be much, much longer than in my earlier stories. So, in order to (maybe/hopefully) update more often, I'm going to try splitting each chapter into two parts for posting purposes. We'll see how it goes.

Please leave a _review_! Feedback feeds the muse – which is in need of a damn good meal at the moment!


	6. Part Six - A Never-Ending Story

_Author's Note:_ Thank you to everyone who has commented on this episode and previous episodes. I love getting your feedback. This is an enormously sentimental chapter, with heartbreak, hope, and inner monologues.

_Enjoy!_

# # #

_Part Six – A Never-Ending Story_

"Dada?"

Hotdog's head jerked up and he blinked, trying to shake off the heavy sleep of post-drunkenness. Where? What? The last thing he remembered clearly was crying in Joe's, while Starbuck sat awkwardly next to him and patted his shoulder. Mumbled inept sympathies while Hotdog drank. And drank. And drank. And then it was just vague, blurry snippets. Hotdog remembered taking a drunken swing at Starbuck, and she had dodged the blow easily and told him to 'keep it together, man'. The faces of the people filling the bar – all of them staring at him, faces full of pity that he couldn't stand seeing. Tripping over his own feet leaving the bar. A memory of vomiting on the road; bent over with hands on knees, Starbuck steadying him so he wouldn't fall down in his own puke. Crying as he leaned on Starbuck's shoulder and looked down at Nicky's sleeping form, peaceful little toddler, so unaware of what awaited him. Hugging Starbuck and thanking her like an emotional fool. Gods – Hotdog's cheeks burned with embarrassment at the jumbled memories.

"Wha–? Nicky?" Hotdog collected himself and his jaw cracked with a yawn.

"Dada!" Came the little voice again and Hotdog groggily looked across the hospital room at his son, sitting up on the bed, his eyes bright and one hand tugging excitedly at his small ear. Round bare toes sticking out the bottom of the baby-sized blanket that Nicky had been sleeping beneath.

"Hey Nicky. Did you sleep well?" Hotdog got up from the uncomfortable hospital chair, neck and shoulders aching and stiff. Gods, how long had he been asleep? He was muddled from all the drinking he'd lost himself in, but the light filtering in the one small window indicated sunrise had recently come and gone. He still felt tired though, and his head ached from the hangover that had apparently set in while he'd been sleeping. He just wanted to go back to sleep and pretend all this was a nightmare.

"Nicky 'leeped." Nicky chirped out excitedly in his baby-lisp and bounced on his bum as Hotdog crossed the room and settled on the side of the bed. He scooped Nicky into his lap,

"Yeah. Nicky and Dad slept." He told Nicky through a yawn and the toddler's hand patted over his father's face, shoving three fingers into Hotdog's mouth and giggling.

"Mouth. Dada's mouth." Nicky grinned, showing neat rows of little peg-like white baby teeth and Hotdog choked back a sudden rush of tears, a wrenching feeling twisting him up as he realised that Nicky was never going to get a chance to lose those little baby teeth. This toothy half-filled grin was all Nicky was ever going to have. Such a little thing, but…

Was this what these last months were going to be? Constant reminders that Nicky was going to die? _Frak_. That godsdamned _word_. Teeth he'd never lose, words he'd never say, baby fat that would melt away not because he was growing but because he was dying, things he'd never do…_gods_, all the things he'd never get to do. Hotdog gripped his son's warm little body tightly to him, top of Nicky's head tucked beneath his chin so Nicky couldn't see the look on his father's face. Nicky might only be little, but he picked up on emotions and they unsettled him, even if he couldn't fully understand.

Hotdog cried a little, muffled tearless sobs as he pictured his foreseeable future. Months of grieving; every milestone that would never be reached, every bit of life that Nicky would never experience – that Hotdog would never get to see him experience. He'd be grieving even before Nicky died. And then when he did…_frak_. Hotdog didn't know if he could stand this. If he could cope with it all. How did you keep going, when you knew it was all coming to an end? How did you keep living every day and acting like things were normal when you knew. You knew. That Nicky was going to die. To _die_. It was like a godsdamned horror.

He was holding Nicky so tight and for so long that the little boy started to complain, wriggling and grizzling in toddler babble, twisting around in Hotdog's lap. He had been an active kid until a few months ago. Starting to get the hang of toddling, and crawling like a godsdamned fiend. A little hand patted Hotdog's cheek and he smiled down at Nicky, trying to make a happy face for the kid.

"Story, Dada?"

Hotdog choked out a half-laugh half-sob. He kept smiling at Nicky; tears burning unshed in his eyes. His voice was hoarse when he spoke.

"Okay. What d'ya want to read?"

"Cow. COW book, Dada." Nicky demanded vehemently, and another half-sob escaped Hotdog's throat. He paused a beat and collected himself, Nicky still bundled cosy on his lap, all snuggled and close.

"Cow. Okay. Cool." Hotdog snagged the dog-eared book up off the bedside table and opened it up at the beginning of Nicky's favourite part; the animal noise he could make the best.

"Where's my cow? Is that my cow?"

Nicky clapped his hands gleefully and pointed at the page,

"Not COW!"

Hotdog grinned a little, expression coming automatically even though Nicky was looking at the book and not at Hotdog,

"No, that's not a cow. What is it then, huh?"

So this was how you went on, Hotdog thought as Nicky made the appropriate animal sounds; an enthusiastic little sheep. There wasn't any special knack to it. You just did – went on living – because you didn't have any other choice. Hotdog had to keep going, because Nicky needed him. You just lived life like…and pretended…and… He felt like crying again, like getting black out drunk. Like beating the frak out of someone or something. He wished it was just over now. Over and done with. Months of waiting…gods he couldn't do it. He _couldn't_. Did that make him a terrible parent? And yet he _didn't_ want it over now. Not really. He wanted every godsdamned minute, every second he could get. While he still could. While he had the chance. Before Nicky was dead. _Gods_.

Hotdog gulped, eyes watering,

"That's right Nicky. That's not a cow, it's a sheep."

And kissed the top of Nicky's head, and turned to the next page, beginning again,

"Is that…?"

# # #

Romo woke from a strange dream about farm animals. They had all been standing in a yard, gathered around him, staring at him accusingly as they baaed and mooed and squawked at him, closing in, closing in. Sinister, menacing. Eyes dark and gleaming, every pair fixed on him with intelligence that shouldn't have been possible. One of the horses had bared its teeth, a frightening expression that seemed alien on the creature and Romo's muscles had tensed to run, but he was trapped in the circle of animals and there was nowhere to go…and then half his brain had realised there was no _dog_ there and he'd woken up, eyes snapping open with sudden fear.

"Jake?" Panic in his voice as he rubbed at sleep-bleared eyes and hefted himself out of his slumped down position against the wall. His scars were hurting sharp and deep inside from the position he'd slept in, and his whole body was aching all over, neck protesting as he moved it. He tried to ignore the pain.

"Jake?" The dog lay sprawled on his side, one visible eye shut. He looked peacefully asleep. Romo felt his chest tighten and he shook his head in denial, but he already knew. With one tentative hand he touched Jake's body; the soft fur of his side, and it was cold; the skin beneath the fur was cold. Cold and stiff, and Romo jerked his hand back and bit back a wordless sound of grief and surprise. No. He couldn't be…

"Jake?" Tears burnt up in his eyes. Spilled over onto his cheeks and he brushed them away frantically, scrambling onto his knees heedless of the pain it kindled in his muscles and bending over the still, dead body of his dog. His family. Romo didn't want to touch him, to feel the _wrong_ stiffness and cold again but something drove him to do it. His hands stroked over Jake's head, cradling the soft muzzle, fingers slipping over the silky ear. At first his spine crawled at the feeling, but then it was just Jake again – a Jake who felt cold and stiff and dead, but still _Jake_. Tears welled over again and Romo rubbed them away with the back of his hand, furious with himself for crying.

He should have more control. He didn't do this. He didn't cry. He hadn't cried over his wife and daughters. His _real_ family. His _children_ – he hadn't cried, not once. Not in all this time. The girls would have been so big now. So grown up, so smart, so quick and bright. And pretty; prettiest little girls Romo had ever seen. But then he was biased – he was…oh gods _had_ _been_ their Daddy. His chest heaved with a sharp jerky breath and he choked it down. They were lying dead from a nuclear blast, unburied bodies on a planet light-years away, and Romo had never godsdamned cried over their deaths.

He hadn't cried over the cat either. He'd gone a little crazy for a while there – lost touch, held a gun on Lee Adama, talked to a hallucination of Lance, carried his corpse around… Huh. Okay, he'd gone a _lot_ crazy, yeah. But he'd never cried, not really. Lance hadn't been his. He had been Faye's cat, never Romo's. That was what he told himself. He hadn't even liked the animal. So Romo hadn't cried over it. But he cried over…a dog?

"A bloody dog?" Romo whispered aloud in disbelief. This was what started the godsdamned waterworks? He thought he knew what Manya might say about why he could cry over one and not the others, but he didn't really give a frak what she'd say. What the hell did she know anyway, really? _Godsdamnit_. He wished she was here and wished she wasn't. Wanted comfort but didn't want anyone seeing him like this. Romo Lampkin didn't do this.

Romo sniffed hard and was horrified to realise his nose was starting to run as his silent tears threatened to graduate into sobs. One hand smoothed down over Jake's flank. He couldn't be gone. He couldn't be dead. It wasn't fair. It wasn't godsdamned _fair_. Hadn't he lost enough?

"I'm sorry, Jake." Romo didn't know what he was apologising for.

"I'm sorry."

He shouldn't have fallen asleep. He had meant to stay awake – so he was there for Jake if or when he died, but instead he'd fallen asleep. Jake had died alone. In the end, everyone died alone. But Romo wished he'd been awake, castigated himself for sleeping through the death of his only companion. He should have been holding his head, stroking him like he was now, talking to him.

"I didn't leave. I was still here, Jake, I just…"

He felt like he was going godsdamned insane, talking to the corpse of his pet. Like the dog would have even been able to understand him when he was alive, let alone dead. Romo knelt over Jake's stiff body and cried silently, choking back the sobs that were building up in his chest. He wasn't going to break down over a godsdamned_ dog_.

"Frak." Romo muttered to himself, fingers making fists in Jake's shaggy fur, as he tried to stop crying. Jake had been just a dog. Romo had bigger concerns than a bloody dog. Bigger things to worry about. He was the godsdamned President for one thing. He couldn't go to pieces over a dog.

"I should have been awake. I shouldn't have…" He shook his head,

"I'm sorry…" The tears were easing and the urge to sob was lessening, and Romo sat awkwardly back in the position he'd sat in all night. Back against the wall, legs stretched out on the floor in front of him, head leaning back against the cold wall. His left hand rested lightly on Jake's head, and he shut his eyes and just sat. Out of words, out of thoughts. Repressing everything until he was just…sad. Romo could handle that.

"Mr President?" A soft voice came from the door and made Romo jump and scrabble for his dark glasses, shoving them quickly on. He swallowed and cleared his throat.

"Yes?" He still sounded awful, and as he looked up toward the door he realised he should have recognised the voice. Not a nurse – Liara Addison. Head stuck around the doorway, hands clutching the doorframe, solemn, inquisitive look on her round face.

"Is Jake…?" Liara asked, still clinging to the doorframe, lips all pursed up and head cocked to the side like a bird's as she stared questioningly.

"Yes. He's dead." Romo managed, swallowing hard.

"I'm sorry for your loss." The words were soft and earnest. Liara came slipping around the doorframe and meandered in, one arm wrapping around her abdomen as she walked. Her eyes were wide and serene on Romo's.

"He was a good dog." Liara said as she knelt on the other side of Jake with a wince and patted his side, smiling sadly down at the still body. Her fingers raked gently through Jake's fur, brown eyes looking up to Romo's – hidden behind his dark glasses and yet somehow she looked right through them.

"He was." Romo gulped again. Liara's hand moved from Jake's body to Romo's hand where it rested on Jake's head, her fingers settling over his and squeezing slightly as she gazed serenely across Jake's body at him. Romo glanced down at her hand, young and smooth resting on his, and then up at her eyes; soft and warm and filled with compassion.

"He's at peace now. No pain. No fear. Just…nothing." Her brown eyes held Romo's unwaveringly and he found himself transfixed.

"_He's_ at peace, no need to be sad for him…it's _you_ who…" Liara trailed off and Romo found himself in the strange position of wanting to confide in the young woman; there could be no harm in expressing his feelings to her. His defences were down. He stared at Jake's body, stiff and cold between the two of them.

"He was my only – my only friend."

"I don't have any friends either." Liara answered, sounding both very childlike and very old. Her hand still lay on Romo's and her skin was smooth and soft.

"It gets lonely, doesn't it?" He asked Liara and she nodded solemnly.

"You miss him." It was a question although she said it as a statement, and Romo nodded slowly. It was starting to sink in now; he was beginning to process the fact that Jake was dead and gone, and his initial grief had retreated somewhat. He was calmer now, thanks in part to Liara.

"I do, Miss Addison."

"We're like jigsaw puzzles. And each of us has lost so many pieces since the Fall…it doesn't seem fair that any of us should have to lose anymore." Liara looked at Romo with those big dreamy brown eyes and smiled, a sad, winsome expression. It sent shivers up Romo's spine, and the image of the jigsaw puzzle brought crystal clear pictures of his wife and children into his mind's eye.

"I have lost so many pieces I have become a puzzle of one." He commented dryly and Liara shrugged, sitting back against the wall and running her hand over Jake again.

"You're not the only one, Mr President." It was a rebuke, though softly stated, and Romo accepted it. Jake's death seemed to have dropped him into a mire of self-pity – of course he was not the only one who had lost everything and everyone. There was a long moment of comfortable silence, save the ever-present background sounds of the hospital.

"I think you should cremate him." Liara said out of nowhere,

"I don't like the idea of people – or animals – being left to rot under the ground. Burning is cleaner; nobler."

"He was just a dog, Miss Addison. Hardly a paragon."

"I'm not the one who was crying over his body." Liara replied and Romo looked sharply at her, expecting to see malice on her face but instead only seeing a far-away expression as she stared off at a non-descript corner of the ceiling. He shifted uncomfortably.

"I –"

"Don't feel stupid and make excuses. Just cremate him. Jake was your friend, not just a dog."

"I never wanted him. Lee Adama –" Romo protested.

"But you took him, didn't you?"

"Yes, but…"

"Then you wanted him." Liara said with an air of finality, and Romo sighed and nodded, accepting the fact and acknowledging it as such. He looked over at Liara,

"Would you go? If I cremated him, I mean. Would you be there?" He swallowed, feeling acutely aware of his vulnerability. Romo pictured Liara Addison being with him when he cremated Jake, rather than him alone as it would be otherwise – the idea was oddly appealing. Then Liara shook her head and Romo withdrew into himself immediately, feeling the sharp sting of rejection; and from a fourteen year old no less. He bit the inside of his cheek and stared down at his hand on Jake's head. This was why he didn't open up to people despite Manya's unspoken opinion that he should. No good ever came of putting your emotions at the whim of others decisions.

"I _would_. I mean, I wish I could, but I have to go shortly. The 'within the hourw kind of shortly." Liara elaborated and Romo felt the stupid feeling of rejection vanish, now castigating himself for overreacting. In the aftermath of Jake's death he had forgotten all about Liara's situation.

"You leave for Beta today?"

"Yes, Dr Nerys thinks it's best I leave right away. Ji – the father's family will be furious when they hear."

"Yes, you were saying yesterday they weren't in favour of you having a termination."

"No." Liara smiled a little, thoughtful, eyes on the future.

"Dr Nerys thinks I'll be able to get a good start in Beta though – she knows of a good family who would be glad to have me work on their fishing boat for my keep." She sighed,

"It sounds nice, I think. I like the sea, and Beta's right _there_, almost on the water. Maybe I could mend the nets. I'm good at sewing, you know." Liara paused and glanced up at Romo and he smiled at her encouragingly. It was nice to hear her talk, to focus on her words rather than Jake's still head beneath his hand. Liara Addison was still a child, despite her recently ended pregnancy and her wisely chosen words, and for a moment she was bright with the promise of the future. Then all too soon reality sank back in and her eyes clouded over with sadness,

"I used to live by the beach on the Colonies. I have – had – so many good memories of the times before the Fall, but they're all fading as time goes on. Washing away to nothing. Are yours?"

"I wish they would, but no. Mine are just as clear as…I don't think about them much though." He confided honestly and Liara tilted her head curiously,

"I think about it all the time. I don't want to forget my family."

Romo smiled. She was still so innocent and happy despite all the trials she had suffered since the Fall. The young were indeed resilient. He nodded neutrally in reply to her comment, unable to think of anything positive to say; Romo didn't want to remember. He wished he could forget – what could he say to Liara that wasn't horribly cynical and depressing? So he said nothing.

"I should go… The people travelling with me to Beta want to leave before midday and I haven't packed yet – not that I have much."

"You're well enough to travel then?" Romo asked awkwardly as he noticed the little grimace that crossed Liara's face as she got to her feet with a last gentle pat of Jake's body.

"Yes. A little sore and crampy, but well enough for walking." Liara responded easily and bluntly, not bothered in the slightest by the personal nature of the subject matter. Romo felt his face flush with embarrassed heat.

"That's, ah, that's good, Miss Addison." He also got to his feet, muscles feeling stiff as hell and creaking painfully.

"I'm glad that everything worked out for you the best that it could…I'm sorry you have to leave Landfall though."

"New beginnings." Liara smiled, holding out her hand. Romo took it and shook it firmly with a return smile.

"Well you have my best wishes. I hope you find life treats you well in your new home." He told her and she nodded and crossed the room, pausing at the door.

"I'm sorry I'll miss Jake's cremation, Mr President."

"That's quite all right, Miss Addison. Completely understandable under the circumstances."

"I know," Liara said,

"But I'm still sorry."

She bit her lip, in the doorway, staring at Romo with gratitude that made him feeling extremely uncomfortable.

"Thank you for everything you've done for me. And for every other woman who is going to benefit from this. I can't tell you how much it means to me."

Romo shrugged and looked down at his feet,

"It was the right thing to do. That's all. I don't…You really don't need to thank me, Miss Addison."

"I know." She said again in that bright, assured tone,

"Goodbye, Mr President."

"Goodbye, Miss Addison."

Romo felt suddenly empty as the young woman disappeared around the doorframe; left standing purposelessly in the empty room with Jake's body. He supposed he should organise the things needed to cremate him – in this environment if bodies were left to lie out they went bad very quickly. Romo sighed; energy drained and heart feeling discouragingly leaden. He needed a good strong drink right about now.

"Mr President?"

He looked up at a blonde head that popped around the doorway.

"Miss Addison?"

"I know Jake's only just died, but I thought I should tell you before I went… Soma's dog had puppies a few weeks ago." And with a bright smile and a last wave, Liara disappeared from sight again.

# # #

"He's very small. And kinda red." Hera peered suspiciously at her baby brother, currently snuggled up in Athena's arms, fast asleep.

"All babies are small and red, Hera-bug." Karl answered their daughter and she frowned up at her father while Sharon watched, still too tired and groggy to contribute much to the conversation. At least whatever the painkillers Doc Cottle had given her had kicked in, and taken the edge off the pain. Athena wouldn't say she was comfortable though. She was exhausted, and emotional, and in no small amount of pain even with the pain relief. So she lay there clutching Jason and listening to Hera and Karl talk.

"And he's wrinkly."

"Well, he needs to fill out his skin a little – put some meat on his bones. You were even smaller when you were born."

"Was not."

"Were too. You were teeny tiny…just…" Karl trailed off, probably remembering the horror of that time, and Athena deliberately stopped herself from remembering any more. She focused on Jason, small and warm in her arms. He was fine now; Doc Cottle had said so. Karl had told her about what had happened while she'd been out, and it sounded awful – Athena was actually glad she had been unconscious and oblivious to the situation. She wished even more that it hadn't happened, but for now she was just going to focus on the fact that Jason was okay, and she was going to be fine too, barring infection. It could have been so much worse. Of course, it could have been better too.

The ongoing argument caught her attention again.

"I'm a big girl!"

"You are _now_, but you were little when you were born." Karl tried reasoning with Hera and Athena smiled to herself. She didn't know why Karl bothered – reason was never going to win an argument with Hera. She was still young enough that any reasoning that she didn't agree with the logical end to went straight over her head. Once she'd dug her toes in, that was it. She was stubborn, just like her father.

"Was not! Prove it then!" Hera said and smirked at Karl, who was at a loss to do so. They had no proof of course. Their quiet, playful arguing faded into the background as Athena stared down at Jason.

Their last baby. The only other child they could ever have. It was probably for the best in multiple levels, but Athena still wished…wished she'd had the choice. Even though she knew Cottle had made the right decision, it had been wrenching to wake up and find out he'd performed a hysterectomy. Athena felt hollowed out, emptied, and even though she knew the feeling was probably purely psychosomatic it still upset her. They couldn't have risked having another baby even if Cottle had left her uterus in, but to just wake up and be told it was gone – that was a strange, unsettling feeling. She wished she could have chosen it. Gods, she wished a lot of things today, but none of them were going to come true.

Jason wriggled and whimpered in Athena's arms and she was distracted from the dissatisfaction creeping over her. He was small, with skin that looked like it would be olive, almond-shaped dark eyes that were currently closed in sleep, and a thin thatch of straight black hair. He was well covered for a newborn, and his little fist was tucked up against his cheek, tiny fingers and tinier fingernails fascinating her. He was gorgeous.

"Do you like him, Hera?" Athena asked at a lull in the argument between her daughter and husband, and the little girl climbed up on the chair by the bed and perched on the edge – leaned over her mother to peek down at her brother's face.

"He's okay, I s'pose."

"Okay?"

"He doesn't do much, huh?"

"He will when he gets bigger." Athena assured her daughter and Hera nodded solemnly, slithering off the edge of the bed and sitting on the chair, swinging her legs lazily beneath it.

"He'll be much more fun when he's older. You can teach him things, and play together, and keep each other company. Family is important, Hera." Athena tried to explain but Hera was only half-listening, chewing on her thumbnail and swinging her legs vigorously.

"I'm bored."

"You go draw then, sweetie." Athena told her daughter and Hera beamed at her and jumped off the chair, scurrying over to the corner of the room where the charcoal chunks she'd been drawing stick-families on scrap pieces of paper were scattered.

"You think they'll be siblings who are inseparable, or who try to kill each other constantly?" It was an idle question, mostly to distract Athena from the lingering pain, she suspected. Karl sat down next to Athena and they both looked from the swaddled Jason in Athena's arms to Hera, now drawing with great concentration. The tip of her tongue pressed against her top lip, hand moving the pen with great precision, wild hair not haloing her face as usual but instead restrained into two neat braids, courtesy of Ellen Tigh.

"They'll be best friends I hope. They'll need to be. They'll need it to get by in this new world." Athena looked down at the baby in her arms and found it difficult imagining him being old enough and big enough to fight with Hera. He was so tiny. He opened his small mouth and yawned, made a squeaking noise and subsided. That future was still a long, long way off yet. But it would seem to come around quicker than she expected – she knew that much. It seemed simultaneously a lifetime ago and only yesterday that Athena had gone into labour with Hera. That hadn't turned out as well as today. And now she had no more chances.

"They'll be fine." Karl ran his fingers along Athena's forehead and she smiled tiredly up at him, the expression slightly pained. She was still sore, still wounded and exhausted and horribly empty. Jason and Hera would need each other; there would be no more siblings now, not after the surgery. There was a creeping sadness at that thought that Athena couldn't process right now, and she put the feeling aside, to work through later. Karl's voice was soothing in her ears.

"They'll have us for years yet, and then they'll have each other." He reassured her,

"They'll be okay. They've got you for a mother, Sharon – how could they not be okay?" His lips formed a twisty little smile and Athena just smiled faintly and nodded; she couldn't be bothered finding the words to respond. Her eyes lingered on the children, flicking back and forth between the two of them. She looked up at Karl; face worn and noticeably older than it had been before they had made landfall, and eyes ringed around with the dark marks of sleeplessness. But still handsome. Still godsdamned gorgeous. Athena could appreciate how frakking appealing he looked even now in her condition, and her hand shifted from Jason's back, seeking his. He enfolded her thin hand in his strong fingers and his grip steadied her, grounded her. _He_ grounded her; he always had. Karl and Hera had been what gave her a reason to be more than she had been. To become her own person, despite _everything_.

"I love you, Sharon." He told her and Athena smiled a little in return, yawned.

"I love you too." She paused.

"So much." She added quietly, unable to properly express the entirety of what she felt, and Karl lifted their entwined hands so that the back of his hand rested on her cheek, his thumb barely brushed over her jaw. It felt good; Karl with her, Jason warm against her body, Hera safely in her sight. It was a moment in time that Athena wasn't going to forget. Her heart went beating quick and her chest went tight with warmth, eyes skimming over her family. This was it; this was them in their completion. There would be no more additions now – and never, _ever_ any subtractions. Karl, Hera and Jason – her family, and she was never letting any of them go.

Athena's eyelids began to flutter as they sat together in restful silence, and then her eyes slid shut, not opening again. Her breathing settled, deep and even, and Karl eventually disentangled their fingers and laid her hand back on the bed. Jason squirmed and her arm unconsciously gripped him tighter, snuggling him into the crook of her arm. Hera scratched careful charcoal stick figure families with the new addition of Jason Agathon, head bent over her artwork as she sketched misshapen masterpieces. And Karl watched over them, rubbing at scratchy eyes as he struggled to stay awake – as much as he wanted to stretch out on the narrow bed with Athena, someone had to watch Hera.

And Athena slept, her dreams bright and hopeful depictions of a shining future.

# # #

The sun was setting on the horizon, painting the landscape and tinting the bowl of cloud-drifted blue sky in a wash of cerise and gold. The mountains were glimmering with sparks of pink, the green of the forest richly yellowed in the light, and the rough wood cabin on the hillside was bathed in the day's end. The door sat open, and the interior of the dwelling that nestled on the small plateau was empty, although embers smouldered in its fireplace.

The cabin's sole occupant was clutching a colourful if rather ragged and wilted poesy, and sitting on the uneven ground near a stone cairn, face turned to the vista stretched out before him. His worn eyes were far away, and one gnarled finger smoothed over the velvety petals of a blue-hued bloom as he talked softly to the still evening air.

"You never stop worrying, you know. Whether they're babies, children, uncontrollable teenagers…fully grown adults… You never stop worrying. They don't stop being your children just because they aren't children anymore. And that's fine. You can't stop yourself from worrying, hoping – wishing life'll go easy on them and everything will turn out okay. But you can't make their choices for them. I learnt that one the hard way. You gotta let them make their own mistakes – and by the gods they _will_ – and carve their own path in life, strike out on their own.

And they'll frak things up, and disappoint you. Break your heart and make you wish for the golden days when they were just barely toddling and you were a god to them. They'll do the wrong thing; they'll call you old and ignorant and scorn your advice. There's no two ways around it. They aren't carbon copies of you, so there are gonna be times when you'll never see eye to eye, when you'll never agree, or even be able to compromise in the slightest.

And parents aren't perfect. We're only human. And it's those times when you don't agree that you'll get frakked off by their piss-poor decisions, and you'll likely argue with them. Call them out on their stupidity. Berate them and lecture them, try to show them your way is the right way – wanting to gift them with the benefit of your experiences. You want to share your wisdom, that's hard earned from your own mistakes, your successes, your regrets and your joys. You want to use your life – everything that it is, great or small – to teach them. And they spit on it and call it irrelevant.

But what do you expect? They're kids. They want to explore new horizons, not tread through the same worn old path you did. But you don't see it. You just see stupidity and rebellion, refusal to fit in, ignorance, bad choices, foolish stubbornness… You want your children to live good, productive lives – lives with purpose and direction and meaning. And so you try to make them fit in with your plans for them – make them do what you think is best for them. And that's how you lose them, one way or the other.

Zack died because he wanted to please me. That's a harsh but fair judgement, I think. If I hadn't – then he wouldn't have –

And Lee…well, we made our peace, as best as we could before you and I left, but I wish…I wish sometimes I could be there with him now. Supporting his choices instead of trying to direct his life for him, no matter how much I might approve or disapprove. Let him make some godsdamned mistakes without it changing the way I treated him. Be the father I never was. That's one of my regrets, Laura. One of my biggest regrets – never being the father I should have been to my children. Because at the end of the day – at the end of your life – you come to realise that it doesn't matter a damn whether your children are doing what you wanted them to do with their lives.

It matters that they're your children even when they're grown, and you love them like nothing else in the universe.

And you know, you never stop worrying about them."

He got to his feet with a grunt of effort, and laid the bunch of flowers tenderly on the cairn, plucking off and tossing away yesterday's faded offering. He stared at the carefully piled tomb of stones for a long moment, sadness written in the seams of his face.

"Good night, Laura." He said as he always did, and with a last glance at the light of the sunset thrown onto the mountains and swathing the sky, he made his way back into the small, empty cabin.

# # #

_Author's Note:_ And thus ends Episode Four.

Please leave me a _review_ – your feedback is the only tangible reward I get for writing, and it motivates me like nothing else.

Or to misquote Sandal from DA:O –

"Review?"

"Review!"

Next up is _Episode Five: The Domino Effect_, which is going to be the episode in which I just let go and wallow in angst, emotional turmoil and angsty emotional turmoil :D

It shall be _M-Rated_ and contain all the sex, violence, death, and, I say again _angst_ that one could ever wish for. And plot, yes, plot is important too. Of course. Although, to be fair, the sex is mostly gratuitous.

It will be six chapters like every episode so far, but this time each chapter will be split into two parts, as the chapters are just getting so loooong if I don't cut them in half it shall be _forever_ between updates.

Thank you for reading and, once more –

"Review?"

"Review!"

:-)


End file.
